


You Gotta Play Dirty

by amycarey



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/F, Fluff, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:44:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 48,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1394887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amycarey/pseuds/amycarey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regina Mills is twenty-one, the concert master of the Boston Combined Youth Concert Band and on the path to law school, a good marriage and state senate – if her mother has anything to do with it, at least. Emma Swan is an ace trumpet player, working three jobs to stay afloat and not terribly impressed by Regina Mills’ cold and snooty attitude.</p><p>Alternate universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

Regina likes getting to concert band early to warm up. The Boston Combined Youth Concert Band has been the steady rock that has saved her as she’s become increasingly immersed in the final year of her degree. The practice room is quiet; their conductor, Gold, is in the offices upstairs and so the space is empty, seats and stands already set out.

 

She eases together the pieces of her clarinet, waxing the cork, which is growing stiff and squeaky, and holding the reed in her mouth to soften it. Then, placing it against the mouth piece and tightening the screws on the ligature, she places her mouth to the instrument and blows softly.

 

Flat. She fiddles with the barrel and upper joint, extending the barrel and re-trying. Better. She pulls out her sheet music – she’s been struggling with her solo in ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ and she wants to get it right before they start rehearsing it proper next week. Gold tends to push them to play fast and unless she’s prepared, it ruins the quality of her sound. She runs her fingers over the keys, feeling for any stiffness, before bringing her clarinet to her lips and playing.

 

She loves this music, loves immersing herself in the drama of the melody. It’s the sort of music that makes you want to sway theatrically as you perform. She’s practising and so she doesn’t realise there’s someone watching her until she’s finished her run through.

 

She shakes her head, frustrated, and hears a chuckle behind her. “Ever the perfectionist, dearie.” Gold. She’s not over fond of the conductor, though he’s also something of a mentor for her as well as being an old friend of her mother’s.

 

“It’s not even that hard a piece,” she says, annoyed with herself and irritated that Gold has seen her in a moment of weakness. “I just haven’t had the practice time.” Gold just looks at her. “I’ve had mid-terms,” she adds.

 

“Excuses, excuses,” he says. “Just be better.”

 

She nods. Band members start trickling in. They start at seven, but the expectation is that everyone will be ready for tuning at that time. Belle French shoots her a sympathetic glance and slips into the row behind her. “He on your case again?” she asks.

 

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Regina says, swivelling to watch her friend put together her own clarinet. Regina’s the concertmaster, the leader of the first clarinets, and Belle’s leader of the seconds.

 

“It’s an amateur group,” Belle says. “Work and study come first.” Belle’s a champion for any cause; Regina’s known her since they were roommates in their first year of college and Belle was a social justice junkie, joining every political group or protest on offer. They still live together, off campus. Regina’s not an easy person to live with and Belle’s, like, ludicrously tolerant of her habits.

 

“How was work?” Regina asks, changing the subject.

 

“All good,” Belle replies, smiling. Belle works at one of the university libraries because she’s a book fiend. “Ruby came by and kept me company at the helpdesk for a bit.”

 

“Did she now?” Regina asks, eyes darting over to the saxophones where Ruby Lucas is putting her instrument together, the bell of her sax held between her thighs.

 

“We’re just mates,” Belle reminds her for the thousandth time, which, yeah, whatever. Regina doesn’t look at her friends like they’re a piece of particularly delicious cake.

 

“Five minutes people,” Gold calls out and Belle gets back to warming up, leaving Regina to look around the rehearsal space, the cacophony of noise, which would in any other situation cause her stress, relaxes her. The brass boys are being their usual obnoxious selves. Regina suspects Killian sees his trombone as a penis metaphor and Doc’s chosen this moment to empty the spit valve on his trumpet.

 

Ruby catches her eye and grins, leaning into her saxophone and pursing her lips. Regina can see the appeal; the clothes and innuendo don’t do it for her personally, but Ruby’s undeniably attractive.

 

Gold’s at his stand, waiting. Regina faces him and the band quietens. “Tuning note, please.” Archie, their sole oboist, plays a C. Typically Archie would be concertmaster; it’s traditionally the position of an oboist, but he lacks confidence so the role has fallen happily to Regina this year.

 

“Flutes,” Gold says and Mary Margaret and her section lift their instruments. The doors open at that moment and a girl enters, carrying a battered trumpet case. The first thing Regina notices about her is the blonde hair curling around her shoulders. The second thing is the defined muscles in her arms accentuated by the tank top she’s wearing.

 

“Sorry,” she says, looking around at the group, lips a firm, straight line.

 

“Ah, Ms Swan,” Gold says. “Graham, shuffle down one. Ms Swan will be our new first trumpet.” Regina eyebrows knit together and she looks over at Graham who appears surprised, though not disappointed. He’s not a confident enough soloist and the band has been suffering because of it. “Flutes, again please.”

 

Regina watches the new girl as Ms Swan strides over, unpacks her trumpet in record time and settles comfortably into the chair, fingers drifting idly over the valves. “Clarinets.”

 

Regina, along with her section, raise their instruments and play the B flat, Regina listens carefully and gestures at David, who’s slightly flat. Once tuned and a few warm up scales played, rehearsals begin in earnest, starting with ‘Danny Boy’, a piece they’ve played as a band so many times they don’t even need to think.

 

Next, Gold hands out new music. “The Carmen Suite,” he says. “Abridged, admittedly. There’s a trumpet solo, Ms Swan.” The new girl just nods, impassive expression.

 

They practise solidly until eight, running through the music once and then focusing on the first section, before taking a short break. Regina takes a swig from her bottle of water and stands, placing the cap on her clarinet and placing it across her chair. She stretches and wanders over to Graham.

 

“Hey, Mills,” he says, holding out a hand for a high five because Graham is essentially a fifteen year old boy from the 80s.

 

Regina ignores the hand. “How was work?” she asks. Graham’s a new cadet with the Boston PD. He grimaces.

 

“So bad,” he says. “Constant paperwork. Are you coming out after rehearsals?”

 

Regina shrugs. “Unlikely.” Most nights after rehearsals a core group of members go out for drinks. Regina doesn’t often join them; she’s not a big drinker and several hours nursing a drink at a bar, watching people dance isn’t worth losing out on study and sleep. “You could always come by later,” she adds, raising an eyebrow. The new girl snorts, overhearing this, and Regina glares at her. “What?”

 

“Nothing,” Ms Swan says, fiddling with a valve on her trumpet, and leaning back in her chair. “Just, was that supposed to be subtle?”

 

“Regina’s never subtle,” Graham says, grinning, and Regina stands on his foot with her heel. Ms Swan definitely notes this, her eyes narrowing when Graham winces melodramatically.

 

“You look like you’d enjoy going for a drink, Ms Swan,” Regina says, letting her eyes roam Ms Swan’s narrow frame, clad in skinny jeans, chunky boots, tight tank top.

 

“It’s Emma,” Ms Swan says. “I have the early shift at work tomorrow so I’ll have to pass.”

 

“Where do you work?” Graham asks. The new girl’s distracted him from Regina, which is never great, especially when he’s not responding to their code. ‘Come by later’ means there’s a problem.

 

“Where don’t I work?” Emma says, teasing, though Regina notes this doesn’t actually answer the question.

 

Giving up on any subtlety with Graham, Regina states facts because it’s not like Emma Swan will even care. “Graham, my mother’s in town tomorrow,” Regina says and Graham must see something of the panic behind her eyes because he nods.

 

“I’ll be by in time for breakfast,” he says, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. “I’ve got work at ten though.”

 

She nods, pressing a hand over his.

 

As she walks back over to her section, she hears Emma Swan say, “Your girlfriend’s got you wrapped around her little finger,” and heaves a sigh.

 

Rehearsal continues with an arrangement of ‘Malagueña’ that they’ve had for a few weeks. Gold is a relentless taskmaster, making them practise the same section over and over again, threatening to go around instrument by instrument and find the person who’s fudging it. “Sharper tonguing,” he says, gesturing at the clarinets. “Mills, get your section in order.”

 

Regina bristles and looks back at Belle who nods. They continue, Regina listening to her section. She thinks it’s Ashley who’s the problem; she’ll run through it with her after rehearsals.

 

The flutes are next to face Gold’s wrath an Regina gets a kind of absurd amount of pleasure in seeing Mary Margaret Blanchard’s section raked over the coals for a change.

 

“Ashley, stick around,” Regina says, as rehearsal finishes. The mousey blonde stiffens, eyes wide and terrified, and Regina barely resists rolling her own eyes. “I just want to run through something with you,” she adds. “Don’t freak out.”

 

“Okay,” Ashley says. Her posture relaxes slightly but the terror-filled eyes remain.

 

“Your tonguing is sloppy,” Regina says. “Play this part,” she gestures at several bars of music, “really slowly for me.” She counts her in and Ashley plays what is a simple melody. “Less staccato,” Regina says, “but acceptable. Again.” Ashley repeats it and it’s better. “How often do you practice?”

 

“A couple of hours a week,” Ashley says. “I don’t get much time with work and night school.”

 

“Try and fit in at least another two hours,” Regina says, wanting to tell Ashley that she practises at least two hours daily. “What’s your reed hardness like?”

 

“It’s a two,” Ashley says, as though she’s embarrassed by this.

 

“All right,” Regina says. “You need to try a three. It will give you a stronger sound.” She rummages around in her clarinet case. “Here’s one. Unused obviously. Give it a go this week before buying a pack.”

 

“Thanks,” Ashley says, surprise evident in her voice and taking the reed encased in plastic gingerly.

 

“Belle, I’m heading off,” she says. “You need a ride home?”

 

Belle pulls her thick brown hair out of the ponytail she keeps it in for rehearsal. “I’m going for a drink. Come with, Regina.”

 

“Too much work to do. Have fun though.” On top of study, she has to clean the apartment from top to bottom. Her mother never gives her notice that she’s coming to visit. Regina only found out a few hours ago, when she was in a tutorial and not intending to return home before rehearsal. “Remember my mother’s coming for breakfast tomorrow,” she adds and Belle nods, pulling a face.

 

She drives back to the apartment building, parks and takes the stairs to the fourth floor, heels clacking against linoleum. She loves her apartment. She and Belle found it in their junior year. It’s tiny, two bedrooms and a combined living, dining, kitchen space. There are books everywhere because Belle’s majoring in English literature and Regina’s an avid reader herself. She and Belle sacrificed space for a couch with a small, upright piano – she’s always been better at the clarinet but the piano is more soothing since there are no expectations placed on her ability to play it well, and Belle’s a pianist at heart, plays the piano on the rare occasions they need one for band.

 

She takes a moment to decompress after rehearsal, kicking off her heels and sitting at the small kitchen table with a mug of herbal tea. She breathes in the apple and cinnamon scent, hands clasped around the warm mug. Then she scrubs the kitchen bench, vacuums thoroughly, cleans the toilet and puts out fresh hand towels and soap. Her mother always finds something to criticise in her visit.

 

She wakes in a panic at half past five with the realisation that she doesn’t have any breakfast food. “Belle,” she hisses, opening Belle’s door and noting the prone figure splayed across the bed, still in her clothes from the previous night. “We’ve got nothing to feed my mother.”

 

Belle rolls over, looks at the clock. “Fuck’s sake, Gina,” she slurs. Then, noting the very real panic constricting Regina’s body, adds, “French bakery down the road opens at six. Get croissants and stuff. Now, unless you want me to throw up on your mum, let me sleep.”

 

“Thanks,” Regina murmurs and, after a quick shower, she pulls on leggings, a sweater and a pair of battered oxfords. She’ll get herself ready to face her mother on her return. The bakery is quiet but open, the bell ringing when she enters, lights on and Edith Piaf playing. She can hear someone in a store room dramatically wailing, “non, je ne regrette rieeeeeen,” and stifles a smile.

 

She’s paying close attention to the pastries when a woman says, “Bonjour, how can I help?” Turning, she discovers it’s Emma Swan.

 

“Ms Swan!” she exclaims.

 

“Mills,” Emma Swan says, cocking her head to one side. “Didn’t catch your first name last night.”

 

“You work here,” Regina says. It doesn’t suit her; Emma Swan is far too American and strong for the delicate French pastry and coffee making.

 

“Pays some of the bills,” she says, shrugging. “What can I get you?”

 

“Four croissants and four Danish pastries,” she says. “I’m not bothered about flavours. Do you make decent coffee?”

 

“I make awesome coffee,” Emma says, using tongs to put the pastries into brown paper bags. “Let me guess, black coffee, no sugar.”

 

Regina rolls her eyes. “Two lattes will do nicely, thank you. Take away.” She’s now realising she might owe Belle big time. Emma makes the coffee, face intent with concentration. Her blonde hair is tied neatly back into a ponytail but she’s dressed in similar clothes to yesterday, though today’s tank top is blue and cut lower; Regina resists the urge to study the creamy curves of Emma Swan’s breasts.

 

Regina pays by credit card and leaves some coins in the tip jar by the till. Terror receding slightly in the face of coffee, she feels the need to be polite. “How did you enjoy band practice?”

 

“It was good,” Emma says. “Gold’s intense, but I knew that going in.”

 

“You know Gold?” Regina asks. She’s surprised. Gold used to be one of the great musical talents, an important from Scotland, who played concert piano. When he injured his leg he retired from public life for years and now conducts. He’s wealthy, the type of man invited to all kinds of benefits and who donates money to noble causes. Not the sort of man she’d have expected Emma Swan to know.

 

“Sort of,” Emma says and doesn’t elaborate. She’s closed herself off.

 

Regina shrugs. “Until next week then,” she says and leaves.

 

Belle’s up when she gets back, staring moodily at the contents of their fridge. Her hair sticks up in all directions, she’s not wearing any pants and she looks totally hung-over. Regina hands her one of the coffees and watches as her eyes light up. “Sorry for waking you,” she says.

 

“No worries,” Belle says once she’s devoured at least half the large take away coffee. “I’ll need all the time I can get to make myself presentable for your mother.”

 

Regina places the pastry bags on the bench and pours ground coffee into the filter. Then she takes a sip of her own take away coffee. It dulls her nerves, the taste smooth, earthy. She barely holds in a groan.

 

Then she goes and gets changed, blow drying and straightening her hair, pulling on a black sheath dress her mother bought her last time she was in town and pairing it with pearls and black pumps. She normally doesn’t bother with make-up – certainly not lipstick, which would wreak havoc on her reeds – but she needs the armour today and paints her lips in a plum shade. “Overkill much?” Belle says, towelling wet hair.

 

The buzzer rings. It’s Graham. Belle buzzes him in and then sits at the piano, fiddling around on the keys. Regina envies her talent. Graham’s brought fresh fruit and yoghurt and Regina almost kisses him. “Thank you!”

 

“Hey,” he says. “We have a deal. You know that.”

 

She does. She’s known Graham since her first day at college. Two years ahead of her, he was taking tours of campus and she happened to be in his group. He suggested she and Belle audition for the band and they fell into an easy friendship that’s lasted remarkably well.

 

“Still,” she says. “Thank you.”

 

He nods. The buzzer goes again. “Buzzing you in, Mother,” Regina says and then stands by the door, breathing deep, calming breaths. Knock knock knock. Schooling her face into a Stepford smile, she opens the door. “Mother!”

 

“Regina, dear,” her mother says, embracing her. She’s a tall woman, dressed in business attire and sharp, blood-red lipstick. “Graham, my, don’t you look handsome in your uniform?” Graham holds out a hand and they shake.

 

Belle stands up from the piano and waves. “Hi, Mrs Mills. Safe trip?”

 

“Hello, dear,” her mother says. “The flight was terrible. I was an hour delayed last night. Take my coat, dear.” Regina takes it, hangs it over the piano stool and pretends not to see her mother’s pursed lips at this.

 

“Coffee anyone?” Regina asks and moves to the kitchen, enjoying the brief almost-privacy that the alcove affords. She pours four mugs and brings them over to the set table.

 

It’s when they sit down for breakfast that the barbs really start. “Black is such a flattering colour on you, dear,” her mother says, eyeing Regina’s hips. Regina, who is halfway to reaching for a Danish, whips her hand back, ignoring the grumbling of her stomach.

 

Whenever Belle speaks, her mother winces, Belle’s Australian accent far too crass for her sensitive ears. Graham is asked about promotion opportunities in the police department. “You’ll be captain in no time,” she says. “Or you could branch off into politics.”

 

“That’s a possibility,” Graham says, polite as ever, though Regina knows it’ll never happen. He has no interest in desk work.

 

“Regina, I saw Kathryn Midas last weekend. She’s engaged. Isn’t that wonderful?”

 

Kathryn is Regina’s best friend from high school and she’d heard about the engagement to Fred, her childhood sweetheart. She knows what her mother is implying. “Kathryn’s lucky she found love at sixteen,” Regina says.

 

“There’s very little difference between sixteen and eighteen,” her mother says, eyeing Graham speculatively.

 

Belle laughs. “Regina doesn’t have time to plan a wedding,” she says and Regina’s so grateful to her friend.

 

“I suppose not,” her mother says. “Don’t keep me waiting too long for grandchildren though.” Another sly look at Graham who is now, despite his best efforts, visibly uncomfortable.

 

He peers at his phone. “I have to get going,” he says. “Duty calls. Lovely to see you as always, Mrs Mills. See you tonight, Regina,” and he leans down and kisses her lightly on the lips. She trails a hand down his cheek and watches him leave.

 

“Nice boy,” her mother says when Graham is gone. “Lacks ambition, but he’ll make the perfect husband when you’re a senator.”

 

“And I like him, which is important,” she says, voice flat.

 

“Of course,” her mother lies. “I should be going as well. Thank you for breakfast, dear.” She kisses her on the cheek, her lips cold and rough against Regina’s skin.

 

“Enjoy your conference,” Regina says.

 

“Oh, dear, I meant to say. Mother Superior sends her blessings.” And she is gone. Regina breathes out, for what feels like the first time all morning.

 

“Delightful as ever, your mum,” Belle says, patting Regina’s arm. “Have a Danish.”

 

Regina tears a chunk off the pastry, biting delicately and trying to keep crumbs from her dress. The taste seems to revive her. “I’m going to rehearse,” she says. “Do you need me to put a mute in?”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Belle says. “I’ve got class in half an hour anyway.”

 

Regina settles down with her clarinet in front of the stand in her room and plays, starting with methodical scales and arpeggios, perfecting the mellow tone of her playing, before moving into ‘Rhapsody in Blue’. She will get this perfect. She has to.


	2. Allegro

Emma sighs, wiping down benches towards the end of her shift. It’s felt like a long day and she’s glad she doesn’t have to teach today. Just accounts for Vinnie, a bail bondsman she helps out, and she can do those at home, at the kitchen table.

 

“You all right, Swan?” her boss, Leroy, asks and Emma smiles, too many teeth showing and patently false.

 

“Yeah, grand,” she says, mopping up a coffee cup ring, having to scrub the encrusted liquid off the table.

 

“Okay, well,” Leroy says. “Here’s your tips.” It’s never as much as when she used to work at a bar, but the bakery is much better for her. No night shifts, for one. “Take something home for that boy of yours too.”

 

Emma smiles more genuinely this time. “Thanks,” she says, places a chocolate tart in a little box and puts it in the tattered calico bag that holds all her stuff.

 

She walks home. It’s not worth taking the bug for such a short walk, particularly when it’s near impossible to find parks in her neighbourhood. It’s early autumn, leaves reddening on the trees. Henry will be stoked when they start to fall in earnest. He likes jumping in other people’s neatly swept piles and hearing the crackle of leaves under his shoes. She stops at his day care, the place shabby but clean and cheerful. He’s finger painting but runs at her when he sees her, unsteady on his toddler legs. “Maaaaa,” he yells, wrapping paint stained hands around her legs and she knows she’ll be covered in the stuff.

 

“Hey there, kid,” she says, picking him up and giving him a quick hug and kiss. “You got some more artwork for me?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, nuzzling his face into her neck. She feels that pang of true, unadulterated love that she’s only ever felt for her little boy. “We going home now?”

 

She nods and puts him down. “Go wash your hands and then we’ll leave.” She smiles over at his teacher, busy helping out some kids with clay, who waves back. Henry, hands now washed, places his damp little hand in hers, pulls her over to get his backpack and they leave together, walking the three blocks to their apartment, Henry chattering the whole way about how they saw a lizard and how Ms Jones read them ‘The Lorax’ and they danced to music about trolls. “But it’s not as good music as what you play,” Henry informs her, ever loyal. Emma grins.

 

Henry’s exhausted when they get home and conks out on the couch within five minutes. Emma makes herself a coffee and sits at the kitchen table with the accounts and a calculator. Vinnie’s promised her that when she wants it, he’ll give her a proper bondsperson job. She’s waiting until Henry’s older, at school, so that her schedule doesn’t disturb him quite so much. She’s good at finding people and she’s strong enough, smart enough and a decent shot.

 

She was surprised to see Mills (she can’t for the life of her remember the woman’s first name and she didn’t volunteer it) at the bakery this morning, especially so informally attired. She’d seemed stressed, hair damp and curling around her shoulders and dark circles prominent under her eyes, and Emma remembers her intense conversation with Graham from the night before, something about her mother coming over.

 

Emma can’t exactly relate. It’s not like she’s ever had parents.

 

“Mama?” Henry’s awake, rising sleepily from the couch, hair sticking up every which way and rubbing his eyes. “Treat time?”

 

“What do you say?” Emma asks. He’s two and half and he’s getting better at saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ though mostly just to strangers and teachers. There’s a familiarity with her that he apparently doesn’t associate with manners.

 

“Thank you please,” he says, grinning. “Now cake.”

 

Sighing, Emma retrieves the cardboard box from the kitchen and a spoon. Henry’s pulled himself up onto one of the chairs at the table, waiting patiently. “Here you go, kiddo.” He opens it and squeals. “Do you want serenading while you eat your cake, sir?” she asks, bowing low, and Henry claps his hands. Emma grabs her trumpet from its stand in the corner of the room and brings it to her lips, watching Henry take his first delectable bite of chocolate tart. She blows a raspberry into her trumpet and he jumps in fright.

 

“Mama,” Henry says sternly. “Play prop’ly.”

 

“Any requests?”

 

“Saints,” Henry says, his current favourite. Emma’s trying to instil a love of Louie Armstrong in him so she can teach him to play the trumpet when he’s old enough – apart from anything else, she has her old trumpet for him to use and can’t afford any other instruments, let alone paying for lessons.

 

Emma brings the trumpet to her mouth again, purses her lips and plays ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’. Henry dances in his seat and if chocolate mousse ends up in his hair, Emma decides she’s not too worried, not when he looks so happy.

 

She uses the next song to practise her solos in the Carmen suite. Fortunately, Henry likes this music and happily finishes his tart before going to his room to grab his box of Lego, which he spreads out across the floor. He hums along as she plays, which is cute if not exactly tuneful.

 

She gets half an hour solid practice in before Henry’s bored and wants her to play with him. So they spend the time until dinner making a fairy tale kingdom out of Lego. “This is the princess,” Henry says. “And this is the knight,” picking up another female Lego figure. Emma’s heart swells at the tiny gesture, something Henry himself wouldn't understand as being such a big deal for her.

 

The rest of the week is much the same, stealing moments to practice, working, spending as much time with Henry as possible, and cleaning the small apartment they call home. They go to the park on Sunday, Emma’s one designated day off from all her jobs, and spend a bit of time with Mary Margaret.

 

“How’d you enjoy band?” Mary Margaret asks. They’re lying on a picnic rug, watching Henry run around on the field in front of them. She’d suggested Emma contact Gold initially, after the band had lost their first trumpet player, and when Emma had been reluctant to contact the man herself, had pressured Gold into getting in touch with her. She’s Emma’s only real friend, one of the rare ones who’s lasted more than a few weeks.

 

“It was good,” Emma says. “It’ll be valuable for my teaching too.” She teaches trumpet at schools around Boston, has been for the past year, including the elementary school where Mary Margaret works. It’s how they met initially. Emma had been sitting in the staffroom with her hands wrapped around a cup of instant coffee and Mary Margaret, as Emma is now discovering is normal for her, just came over and insinuated herself into Emma’s life.

 

“Gold’s forceful,” Mary Margaret says, “but he gets results and everyone else is really lovely. You’ll have to come out for a drink with the flutes one day.”

 

Emma smiles. Then she asks, “what’s the deal with the first clarinet girl?”

 

“Regina Mills?” Emma takes a moment to consider the name. It’s old fashioned, kind of guttural sounding, but it suits her. “Senior at Harvard, highly stressed, perfectionist, bit of a mean streak,” Mary Margaret says.

 

“I take it you guys aren’t best buds?” Mary Margaret laughs so hard Emma’s afraid she might choke, falling back on the picnic rug and taking deep, gulping breaths. “That’s a no then?”

 

“Yes,” Mary Margaret says. “A solid ‘no’. We went to high school together where I came pretty close to ruining her life apparently and she’s never forgiven me.” Emma presses for details but Mary Margaret, perpetual gossip, clams up and refuses to say more. And then Henry’s back at the rug, pulling Emma towards the swings and there’s no more time for interrogation.

 

She makes it to practice in plenty of time this week, no babysitter dramas this time. A woman from her building, Ari, takes Henry for a couple of hours and she pays her back by looking after her kid whenever Ari and her boyfriend, Eric, go out. Graham’s already there and Emma mutters, “how was brunch with the mother-in-law?”

 

Graham laughs. “Hideous,” he says. “As always.” He glances over at Regina, completely focused on the scores on her music stand. “Worse for her than it ever is for me.”

 

“I saw Regina that morning at the bakery where I work,” Emma says. “She seemed pretty stressed.”

 

“She didn’t mention she saw you,” Graham says, frowning, as though this is somehow unusual for Regina not to mention their encounter.

 

Emma shrugs. “Good weekend?”

 

“Found a new bar,” Graham says. “It’s called The Rabbit Hole.”

 

“Alice in Wonderland themed?” Emma asks.

 

“Not really,” he says. “Though that'd be cool. Pretty much a dive, but they have an amazing DJ. Thought we might go there after rehearsal tonight. You in?”

 

Emma shakes her head. She has to be home by nine thirty, back for Henry who sometimes wakes up at ten and freaks out if he’s still at Ari’s. She’s determined never to let him be scared, not of losing her anyway. “Can’t,” she says. “Sorry.”

 

“You’re as bad as Regina,” he says, but he’s grinning so she doesn’t think he’s too put out. “Do you have to study as well?”

 

“When you’re up at five to get to a six o’clock shift at work,” Emma says, “you stop being quite so interested in late nights.” It comes out snappier than she intended.

 

“Fair enough,” Graham says, chastened, and they focus on warming up, Emma running through scales and practising the fingering for a section from one of the pieces she had trouble with last week.

 

After tuning, Gold wastes no time. “Carmen,” he says. “We’ll play through.” They start fast, Gold’s hand gestures wild and frenetic, the music sounding like nothing so much as a galloping horse. The clarinets and flutes are tripping over their notes, not anticipating the tempo.

 

Emma’s not sure of the protocol in rehearsals, so she doesn’t stand for her first solo in the ‘Toreador’ section, led in by the flutes and clarinets. She sits up straighter though, projecting her sound. It goes well. Ultimately, she’s at home with the violence and triumph of the toreador’s aria. It’s the ‘Habanera’ section that’s more challenging. Her tone’s not all she wishes it could be, all weak and kind of stuffy sounding.

 

“Satisfactory,” Gold says, scanning the room. “Clarinets, watch your trills in the prelude. Not as sharp as they could be. Ms Swan, good work with the ‘Toreador’. Watch your pressure though. It’s contributing to the tonal problems in the ‘Habanera’. Play a few bars, focusing on that.”

 

All eyes are on her. She takes several deep breaths, relaxing her throat. And plays. She gets it, breath flowing, fingering perfect. There’s no feeling quite like perfecting a piece of music in front of an audience. She’s unable to stop the grin spreading across her face when she finishes.

 

Gold is smiling too. “Well, well, dearie. I see we made the right choice in bringing you on board.”

 

Emma’s on a high for the rest of rehearsal. They start preparing for ‘Rhapsody in Blue’, being handed the sheet music, running through the accompaniment twice. “Now, Ms Mills, up front if you please,” Gold says and Regina stands, clarinet in hand. “Band, remember, you’re accompanying the clarinet solo. Do not drown her out.”

 

Emma’s fiddling with her trumpet mouth piece when Regina begins and her mouth falls open. She nails the glissando; Emma doesn’t have to be a clarinettist to know how challenging that must be. Regina Mills playing a solo is quite a different beast from the controlled ice queen Emma’s encountered. She closes her eyes. She sways and dips. Her cheeks are stained pink. There’s something beautiful and serene about her playing that Emma hasn’t see in the woman any other time. She almost misses her cue, busy as she is watching Regina play.

 

They clap when Regina finishes but she doesn’t look happy, frowning at the sheet music and lips moving as though counting. “Excellent work, Ms Mills,” Gold says. “Keep practising those trills and we’ll perform it at our next concert.”

 

She takes a seat, the second clarinet behind her tapping her shoulder and giving her the thumbs up. Regina gives her a tight smile in response and they continue on with rehearsal.

 

A crowd of them walk out to the cars at the end. Emma searches in her bag for her keys. “Shit!” she exclaims.

 

The leader of the second clarinets turns around. She’s pretty, all dark hair and round cheeks and she’s applying sharp red lipstick as she walks. “You all right?”

 

“Locked my keys in my car,” Emma says, grinding her teeth.

 

“You’re not coming out?” she asks.

 

“I can’t,” Emma says. “I have to be home.” She doesn’t bother explaining why. She doesn’t talk about Henry to people she doesn’t know.

 

“Where do you live?” the girl asks. Emma names her neighbourhood and the girl calls, “Oi, Regina!”

 

Regina Mills turns, the glare visible even in the dim of the street lights. “What?” she asks sharply, striding over in her high heels.

 

“You got room in your car?”

 

“I thought you were going out,” Regina says.

 

“Not for me,” the girl says. “Emma’s locked her keys in her car. She doesn’t live far from us.”

 

Regina turns and walks back to her car. After a few steps, she turns her head. “Well, are you coming or not, Ms Swan?”

 

“Don’t mind her,” the girl says, pushing Emma forward. “She’s a bitch to everyone.”

 

“I heard that, Belle French,” Regina says. “And don’t even pretend it wasn’t you. Your crude accent is unmistakable.”

 

“Shit,” Belle mutters. “She’s channelling her mother. Best not to keep her waiting.”

 

Emma runs forward, almost tripping over on a crack in the pavement. She catches up with Regina and gets in the passenger side of the dark vehicle. It’s compulsively tidy, smelling of new car and, unlike Emma’s bug, there’s none of the food wrappers, spare shoes, boxes of tissues and baby wipes, which make up much of the floor of her car. Emma wedges her trumpet case into the back seat, feeling self-conscious about leaving even that on the floor of this car.

 

“Address?” Regina asks. Emma tells her and she pulls out. Regina Mills drives like a maniac. Emma holds herself in place, clutching on to the door for dear life as Regina runs yellow lights and swerves around corners, considerably over the speed limit. She hits a patch of traffic and her road rage is sort of hilarious. “For god’s sake,” she yells at the car in front. “That was a gap, you idiot.”

 

“So,” Emma says as they enter a more residential area and Regina slows infinitesimally. “Your solo was beautiful.”

 

“Thank you,” Regina says, eyes on the road and hands clenching the steering wheel. “There’s a lot of work to do yet. You play well.”

 

“Thanks,” Emma says. “It’s been great getting back into playing for me instead of just teaching. Privileged kids aren’t great at practising.” She’s starting to babble and Regina’s ignoring her, which just makes her even more nervous. “So you live with the Australian?”

 

“Belle?” Regina asks. “Yes.”

 

“Cool,” Emma says. “She seems friendly.” Regina nods and they lapse into silence, Emma wondering how friendly, open Belle could possible live with this closed off robot of a woman.

 

“Hey,” Emma says. “This is my street. I’m just here.” Regina pulls to the side. There are no car parks though the street is quiet so she’s idling on the road. “Thanks so much for the ride,” she says, grabbing her trumpet and bag.

 

“Any time,” Regina says automatically.

 

Emma rolls her eyes, grateful for the dark that allows her to do this without insulting the woman who’s saved her bacon with Henry, no matter how ungraciously. She buzzes Ari’s apartment. “Locked my key in my car,” she says and she hears Ari chuckle and the door open.

 

“Emma Swan,” Ari says, waving the spare key in front of her face. “Seriously. This is the third time in as many months.”

 

“I know,” she groans. “I’m the worst. Henry okay?”

 

“Little angel,” Ari says. “You all good for Friday still?” she asks, referring to date night with Eric, and Emma nods, before going into the bedroom. Henry is lying on one of the twin beds in his pyjamas, four year old Melody snoring in the other bed. Emma sits on the bed and he stirs.

 

“Mama?” he whispers.

 

“Put your arms around my neck, baby boy, and you don’t even have to wake up,” she murmurs and Henry does as she asks, wrapping his arms around her neck and letting her pick him up and carry him out of the apartment. Ari follows with her trumpet and bags and unlocks their door.

 

She puts Henry in his own bed, in his tiny room that’s hardly bigger than a closet, barely fitting a bed and chest of drawers. She kisses his head, smoothing his hair and tucks him into bed. “Love you, kid,” she whispers and Henry mumbles back.

 

Smiling, Emma turns on his nightlight and shuts the door, leaving for her own room and, hopefully, the chance of a good night’s sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely first response. Reviews are always super appreciated.


	3. Marcatto

 

Regina’s still up, finishing the editing on her assignment, when Belle gets home sometime after midnight, comfortably tipsy and giggly. She’s taken her boots off at the door and she sits at the kitchen table beside Regina, sticking her sock-clad feet up on Regina’s chair. Her socks are bright pink and there is a hole in the toe of the left one, chipped glittery nail polish poking through.

 

“I take it you had a nice time,” Regina says. She’s relaxed somewhat, now her assignment is completely written and just needs editing. It was this hideous monster of a history essay, twelve pages and her professor’s picky about bibliographies and refuses to follow standard department policies for referencing.

 

“Yeah,” Belle says. “Graham found this great bar, amazing music and cheap as drinks. I hope you were nice to Emma.”

 

Regina sighs. “Of course.”

 

“No you weren’t,” Belle says. “Did you ignore her the whole way home? Regina, she’s the best trumpet player we’ve had for years. You’ll scare her off.”

 

“Perhaps I was a little cold,” Regina concedes.

 

“So you not only terrified her with your awful driving but you totally blanked her,” Belle says. She rolls her eyes. “God, Regina. You are terrible at people.”

 

“You’re drunk,” Regina says, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

 

“No, I’m not,” Belle says and burps, the smell of beer wafting towards Regina. “Well, maybe a bit, but the point stands.”

 

“Piss off,” Regina mutters, because Belle’s Australian casualness has rubbed off on her over the years in spite of herself, and Belle laughs.

 

“I’m off to bed,” she says. “I have to read, like, the whole second half of ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ by tomorrow for literature and propaganda. It’s probably better through booze goggles.” She stands and places a hand on Regina’s shoulder. “Think about what I said.”

 

Regina ignores Belle at the time but later, lying in bed she can’t stop thinking about her own behaviour. She doesn’t like Emma Swan. She’s rude and gauche and has terrible taste in clothes. But Regina’s the concert master; she should be a leader and good leaders don’t intimidate or freeze people out. It’s just so easy and the alternative so much effort.

 

She thinks of Emma Swan, playing ‘Carmen’ with no accompaniment, just her on the trumpet. Her posture perfect, cheeks reddened, sound clear and smooth. The play of muscles in her arms, the flexing and touching of fingers is almost sensual. A far cry from the awkward woman she drove home. The band needs her and that should be enough for Regina to do the right thing.

 

She’s up at six by pure force of habit and dresses with care. Then, she walks down to the bakery. There are a couple of customers and a surly man at the counter, heavily bearded and glaring as though he dares her to order something. His name badge reads ‘Leroy’. “Is Emma Swan working?” Regina asks.

 

“Em!” Leroy yells and Regina feels genuine fear for her eardrums.

 

And then Emma Swan is coming out from the bakery, carrying trays of sourdough in her strong arms. She looks at Regina, a question in her eyes, and Regina attempts a smile that feels forced. “Do you have a moment?” she asks.

 

Emma looks over at Leroy who rolls his eyes, which Emma appears to take as assent. “I’ll just unload these. Take a seat.”

 

Regina perches on the edge of one of the chairs, with metal filigree backs and almost no padding. A moment later, Emma Swan is in the seat across from her, two take away coffee cups in her hands. She passes one to Regina. “It’s just ordinary stuff,” she says. “You look like you could use a coffee though.”

 

Regina tries not to take offense at this. “I came to apologise,” she says stiffly, “for my incivility in the car yesterday.”

 

Emma attempts to hide a grin behind her coffee cup but Regina can tell and it makes her furious. “Your Australian friend put you up to this, didn’t she?”

 

“Of course not,” Regina says.

 

“Liar,” Emma Swan replies, but there is no malice in her voice, only faint amusement.

 

“All right,” Regina concedes. “Belle suggested I might have been a little abrupt.”

 

“Better,” Emma says.

 

“Do you need help getting your car back?” Regina asks, taking a sip of coffee. It’s warm and milky and tastes faintly of caramel. She’s disconcerted by the intent stare of Emma Swan, green eyes laser-focused on her.

 

“Nah,” Emma says. “Got it sorted. My neighbour’s picking it up for me in return for using it today. Thanks though.”

 

“Not a problem,” Regina says. She looks at her wrist, realises she’s not wearing a watch and is momentarily flustered. “I should go.”

 

“Hey,” Emma says. “Given we live so close by, perhaps we could car pool to band? Save the environment and all that.”

 

She doesn’t know why – perhaps it’s because Emma Swan makes her feel ruffled or perhaps it’s the delicious coffee – but Regina doesn’t flatly refuse. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll pick you up at six fifteen.”

 

“That’s early,” Emma says, raising her eyebrows.

 

“I like to get to rehearsals early,” Regina snaps. “If that doesn’t suit you…”

 

Emma holds up her hands in a sort of ‘I surrender’ gesture. “Hey, no, it suits me okay. You remember my address?”

 

“Between now and nine hours ago?” Regina says. “I think I can cope.”

 

Emma snorts. “Okay. See you then.”

 

“Quite,” Regina says because she so wants the last word but can’t think of anything to say. Her phone rings at this point and she answers it without looking. “Regina Mills.”

 

“Regina, it’s your mother.” Regina’s heart sinks, her free hand tensing and clenching automatically. Emma Swan, who is obviously watching her far too closely, gives her a concerned look and mouths ‘Are you okay?’ Regina uses her spare hand to shoo her away.

 

“Hello, Mother,” she says, picks up her coffee and manoeuvres out of the bakery, opening the door with her elbow. “How was your conference?” She looks in the window of the bakery and Emma Swan is still watching her. Regina resists the childish and petty urge to poke out her tongue.

 

“The conference was excellent,” her mother says. Cora Mills is CEO of Mills Enterprises, has been since Regina’s father passed away. Though she was the epitome of traditional housewife through much of Regina’s childhood, cooking exquisite meals, hosting functions, subtly reinforcing traditional expectations on her daughter… she seemed much more at home in the conference room. “Wonderful networking opportunities.”

 

“Fantastic,” Regina says. “Was there a reason you were calling? Only, I have a class soon and I want to get some clarinet practise in.”

 

“I simply wondered, dear, whether Graham would be coming home with you for Thanksgiving,” her mother says. Thanksgiving is a month away but for her mother it’s always been the mammoth undertaking, where everyone who is anyone in their small town of Storybrooke is invited. Regina always ends up seated between the psychiatrist she saw in her senior year of high school and the mother superior who christened Regina and saw her every Sunday for eighteen years. It’s never pleasant and sends her screaming further back into the closet than ever before.

 

“I’ll have to discuss that with him,” Regina says. She’s almost home and stops on the street, leaning against a tree.

 

“You’ve been together three years,” her mother says and her tone is sharper now that she’s not immediately getting what she wants, less conciliatory. “I question his commitment to you in the long run if he cannot come for Thanksgiving.”

 

“He does have family of his own,” Regina says, panicking. If her mother stops finding Graham a suitable marriage candidate, Regina’s totally fucked. She remembers her first year at college. Every weekend it seemed she was set up with boring pre-law or pre-medicine or business scholars who her mother knew through a friend at church or a business associate. All suitable white boys with some ambition, good looks and unquestionable privilege, who would serve perfectly to legitimise her mother’s political ambitions for Regina.

 

She can’t go back to that. Not for another year. Not until she’s making her own way.

 

“If he’s lucky, you will be his family one day,” her mother says. “Discuss this with him. Now, I really must go. I love you, dear.”

 

“I love you, Mother,” Regina says. The hardest thing is that she means it. It would be so much easier if she didn’t care.

 

It’s dark by the time she gets home from college, assignment submitted, notes taken and back aching from the four hardback books she’s just got out of the library. Belle’s made stir fry and dishes Regina up a bowl, pouring her a glass of wine. “Long day?” she asks.

 

Regina nods, sipping gratefully at the glass of merlot. She doesn’t drink a lot, doesn’t like feeling out of control, but a glass of wine at the end of a hard day can’t be beat. “The longest.” She spears chicken and rice onto her fork. “Mother wants Graham to come for Thanksgiving.”

 

Belle came to the Mills Thanksgiving back in freshman year and vowed never again. She winces in sympathy. “Can you pretend he’s working?”

 

“That’s a possibility,” Regina says. “I’m worried she’ll decide he’s not good enough after all and start flinging men at me again.”

 

“She does know this is the twenty-first century, right?” Belle asks. “Like, you get to choose your spouse, not her.”

 

Belle must remember those days in her first year. Regina was a terrible roommate, nervy, barely civil and with a strict adherence to the roommate agreement code, but every week a new boy found by her mother came to pick her up for a date and at the end of the evening would angle for an invite back to her room. Sometimes Regina said yes just because constantly saying no was exhausting. But every time, Belle would be in the room, making her presence known often in the most obnoxious ways – Taylor Swift break-up music blaring, folding laundry on Regina’s bed, talking loudly on the phone to her parents – and the boys would scarper.

 

It took far too long before Regina realised Belle was doing it on purpose.

 

“I just need to get through this year,” Regina says, exhaustion seeping into her pores. She picks at a piece of broccoli. Belle doesn’t understand. She’s always been so secure in her sexuality, liking males and females in equal measure and never apologising or justifying it, and her parents support her in everything. Even if they didn’t, they’re halfway around the world.

 

“I’ll be in my room,” Belle says, clearing plates and leaving them to soak.

 

Regina washes the dishes, fingers going soft and prune-like in the water. She knows she should practise the clarinet – or, alternatively, do some of her readings – but instead she sits down at the piano. She slides her fingers along the keys, enjoying the cool touch of acrylic. She fishes through the sheet music on top of the piano, finds the score she’s looking for. Back when she was young, barely in high school, she thought she might audition for music conservatories – a secret dream cherished – and she played ‘Moonlight Sonata’, which was her understanding of what sophisticated music was, until her fingers bled. It was around her junior year that she realised two things: firstly, she was never going to study music and secondly, she was much better at the clarinet. Still, the tune had stuck.

 

She’s played it so many times that her muscles remember what she’s doing. Some of her playing is clunky and she plays it considerably more slowly than is intended, but there’s none of the pressure of perfection that comes with the clarinet so it’s soothing. Her headache dissipates and she finds she’s much more ready to do her readings.

 

Much of the week is spent in the same way; music, study, dinner with Belle. Regina and Graham get coffee on Saturday morning, her shout, and she asks him about Thanksgiving.

 

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Regina, I love you, but I love my mom and dad more. I’m sorry.”

 

“Shit,” she mutters. “You’re the worst. I should just dump you.”

 

Graham laughs. “Good luck finding another fake boyfriend.”

 

“Won’t have to,” Regina says. “I’ll just go into incredibly deep mourning. It’ll give me something to talk about with my old psychiatrist at Thanksgiving dinner anyway.”

 

“Jesus, that’s fucked up,” Graham says. “She invites your therapist.”

 

“He is of good standing in the town,” Regina says, mimicking her mother. “Honestly, if he didn’t know all about my ‘deviant behaviour’ I think Mother’d be happy for me to marry him.” She’s unfairly maligning the doctor, who’d never made her think her sexuality was a sin, like her mother and the church had, and had simply tried to help her through dealing with it as best he could.

 

On Wednesday, she parks outside Emma Swan’s apartment building at precisely six fifteen and is frustrated to discover the woman isn’t outside. She watches the minutes tick past, waiting, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel. At six twenty, Regina decides that she will give her five more minutes and then leave. Finally, at six twenty-three, Emma Swan rushes out the front doors, trumpet in one hand and bag slung over her shoulder.

 

“Sorry,” she says. “Emergency.”

 

Regina pulls out from the curb, taking off into traffic. “I said six fifteen,” she says. “What part of that was too complex for you to understand?”

 

“What part of ‘emergency’ did you not get?” Emma fires back.

 

Regina speeds through a yellow light, turns sharply at the next intersection. “This must never happen again.”

 

Emma swears under her breath. The rest of the car ride is spent in angry silence, Regina fuming over the lost warm up minutes, lost time spent in an empty rehearsal space, lost time spent where her problems can’t get to her. By the time they get to the band rooms, there are already a few people there, the atmosphere jovial. Emma storms over to the trumpet section, engaging Graham in ludicrously flirtatious conversation that Regina suspects is supposed to make her jealous or something.

 

Rehearsal itself is fairly ordinary. They have two new pieces to rehearse; ‘Galop’ by Shostakovich and a medley of songs from ‘Chicago’. The focus of the rehearsal is primarily on ‘Carmen’. Regina hasn’t played this badly in a while and she’s grateful that the other clarinets can pick up the slack.

 

At the end of rehearsal, Gold calls for their attention. “Now, as is customary, we will be going on our band retreat. It’s in three weeks. I’ve emailed out the basic information. If you cannot attend, I expect a compelling reason.”

 

Ruby grins and punches a fist in the air. “Band camp!” Regina pointedly does not look over at Emma Swan to see what she thinks of this.

 

Gold looks pained. “Please don’t call it that.” Ruby rolls her eyes and Gold continues. “We also have our traditional Christmas concert the weekend after Thanksgiving. Please put this in your calendars.”

 

Regina enjoys the rehearsal aspect of ‘Band Camp’ (as much of the band insists on referring to it) but the social parts, if she’s honest, kind of stress her out. Still, she has Belle and Graham and they help.

 

She packs up slowly after rehearsal. “Need a lift, Belle?” she asks and there’s a tinge of desperation in her voice.

 

Belle just laughs. “You didn’t manage to start a fight in a fifteen minute drive.” She looks at Regina’s face. “Oh God, you did.”

 

Regina sighs. “You’re right. I can’t do people.”

 

“Apologise,” Belle says.

 

“But it wasn’t…”

 

Belle interrupts her. “Apologise, Regina.”

 

Emma’s standing stiffly by the door, talking with Graham. “Are you ready, Ms Swan?” Regina asks.

 

“I can find another ride,” Emma says. Graham gives Regina a Look.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Regina says.

 

“It’s no problem,” Emma replies.

 

“Get in the damn car,” Regina says, barely managing to speak without gritted teeth. “And stop wasting more of my time.”

 

“She’s just normal angry, right?” Emma says to Graham in a conversational tone. “I’m not going to end up in the boot with my fingertips cut off?” Graham just laughs.

 

Regina starts walking and she hears the clomp of Emma’s boots behind her so assumes she’s following. She takes particular care to drive cautiously and breeches the silence after a few minutes. “Sorry about before,” she says but she can’t help the lack of apology in her tone.

 

“Not a problem,” Emma says, though her own tone is anything but forgiving.

 

“So you’ll do next week?” Regina asks. Emma gets out her phone and Regina tells Emma her cell phone number. Next thing she knows, a flash is going off.

 

“For my contacts,” Emma says.

 

“Delightful,” Regina replies. “I really love grainy action shots of me.”

 

“Well, I’m still pissed at you,” Emma says. “When I’m in a more forgiving mood, I’ll take a better picture.” Regina laughs at this, the sound husky and warm, echoing in the confines of the car, and she notes Emma looking at her in shock. “Didn’t know you could do that.”

 

“Be funnier and you’ll hear it more often,” Regina says. They’re stopped at a set of lights so Regina looks over and sees Emma is grinning, the goofy smile softening her features.

 

“So, band camp,” Emma says.

 

“What about the retreat?”

 

“What does it involve?”

 

“Constant rehearsal during the day, some sectionals and some full band,” Regina says. “Drinking, dancing, puerile behaviours at night.”

 

“Sounds like my kind of retreat,” Emma says. The silence is more companionable and when Regina pulls over in front of Emma’s apartment building she feels reasonably warm towards the blonde.

 

“Thanks,” Emma says. “I’ll send you a text to get your address.” And she leaves. Regina watches her bound up the steps, wondering what it is that Emma is so desperate to return home to that she’d get in a car with a woman she dislikes rather than spend an hour or two at a bar with the actual decent people in the band.

 

It’s not until she returns from the supermarket the next day that she realises Emma has left her sheet music in the backseat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the lovely response so far. Reviews are always appreciated.  
> Also, there's a superficial amount of Lacey in my Belle characterisation, but underneath she should be the same character, believing in people's innate goodness.


	4. Forte

 

It’s been a pretty ordinary day all up, until Henry decides to break out of his usual peaceful and angelic temperament to become the devil toddler from hell. He breaks a plate, stacked by the sink, and cries when she won’t let him play with the pieces. He throws his sippy cup of cranberry juice at her. He eats three eucalyptus-scented Kleenex before Emma realises and screams like he’s being murdered when she puts the tissue box on top of the bookshelf. She leaves the room for, like, ten seconds and returns to find him climbing the bookshelf to retrieve his snack.

 

This earns him time out, wailing the whole time, and Emma a call from the woman next door. “Would you keep the noise down?”

 

Emma barely resists the urge to tell her to ‘fuck off’ and apologises. “Henry’s just having one of those days.”

 

A moment after she’s hung up the phone there’s a knock at the door. “I’m sorry, all right?” she yells, opening it. But it’s not one of her neighbours.

 

It’s Regina Mills, grey pea coat hugging her body and her perfect hair making Emma feel inadequate about her own slightly greasy ponytail. Her mouth is open in surprise and she’s staring at Emma’s midsection with something like horror. “Are you all right, Ms Swan?”

 

Emma looks down and sees the red stain across her tee-shirt. “Cranberry juice,” she says, or yells rather, because Henry is clearly practising being a banshee in time out.

 

Regina holds out Emma’s music. “You left this in my car,” she says.

 

“Oh! Thanks,” Emma says. She hasn’t had a chance to notice it missing. The screaming, blessedly, stops and then Henry yells out.

 

“Mama, I’m ready to be good.”

 

Emma rolls her eyes at Regina who is eyeing the apartment as something akin to a war zone. “It’ll be because he heard someone at the door,” she says. “Can you please wait?”

 

Regina looks desperately at the hallway but nods. Emma crosses to Henry’s room, opening the door and entering. “No more screaming?” she asks.

 

“Only for spiders and ice cream,” Henry says.

 

“Good man,” Emma says and stands aside. He runs out into the living room, his sudden freedom after long minutes of imprisonment at once rejuvenating and overwhelming. Then he remembers the voice from the door and toddles over. Emma stands back, kind of sickly interested to know how Regina will react to Henry and Henry to her.

 

“Hullo,” he says. “I’m Henry. Who’re you?”

 

Regina’s whole face softens. “My name is Regina,” she says and crouches down and holds out a hand, like one might greet a business associate. Henry takes the hand and holds it for a moment, staring puzzled at Regina. Then, he smiles, that beautiful, beatific smile, and waves her hand around violently. Regina smiles back and it’s stunning the change a small smile makes on her because while Emma kind of thought she was sexy in an angry, dangerous sort of way, now she’s beautiful.

 

“Come and see my toys,” he says and, still holding her hand, he drags her over the threshold. Regina looks at Emma as if to ask permission and Emma just shrugs and leaves Henry to it, removing to the kitchen to put on the coffee. When she returns, Henry and Regina are sitting on the floor and Henry’s showing Regina the ‘castle’ he built with his Lego. Regina’s removed her coat, draping it over the arm of the couch. She’s wearing pantyhose and a pencil skirt and is obviously struggling to sit in a dignified way. Emma gets a rather extensive glimpse of smooth, tanned thigh and directs her eyes back to Regina’s face, hoping her face isn’t as pink as it feels.

 

“Coffee, Regina?” she asks.

 

“Yes,” Henry says imperiously. “And I want a cocoa.”

 

“I want a cocoa what?” Emma asks, ignoring for now the fact that Henry has answered for his guest.

 

“Thank you please, Mama,” Henry says, flashing Emma a winsome smile and Emma’s heart melts.

 

“Can you politely entertain our guest while I make drinks?” Emma asks. “It’s a very important task. I don’t know if you’re up for it.”

 

Henry puffs up his chest. “I can en-tain.”

 

Regina laughs, the sound almost a giggle and escaping from behind her hand. Emma leaves them to it, returning to the kitchen. She takes a moment to lean against the counter, taking in a few deep breaths. Regina finding out about Henry had never been in the game plan. She’s sure Regina can do the math, work out that Emma was only seventeen when she got pregnant, and judge her for that.

 

Still, she knows now and, to her credit, Regina’s being kind. There was a moment, watching her on the floor with Henry where Emma could imagine Regina as Henry’s mother, home after a long day at work to spend time with her son. It’s not a bad image if you ignore the serious personality issues and tragic heterosexuality and Emma allows herself a second with the fantasy.

 

Emma heats milk for Henry’s cocoa, pours two coffees and fossicks around in the pantry until she finds a box of cookies and an old tray. She places everything on the tray and carries it out to the living room. Henry has Regina sitting at the table with him and is explaining that it is very important that they sit at the table to have hot drinks. “So we don’t spill,” he says and Regina nods as though he’s made a valid point.

 

“Well done, kid,” Emma says. Normally she has to fight to get him to sit at the table for any length of time but he seems desperate to impress Regina. “I’ll have to have you around more often, Regina, if you provoke such positive change in my boy.” She sets Henry’s cocoa down on a placemat in front of him and gives him one cookie. Then she slides a coffee over to Regina and sits, clasping her hands around her own mug.

 

Henry keeps up a steady stream of chatter, chocolate quickly ringing his mouth. Emma’s able to sit back and observe. She wonders how much Regina’s had to do with kids; until now she would have thought no experience, but seeing her with Henry changes her perspective. When Henry’s finished, he gets down from the table and goes back to his Lego.

 

“Come play,” he says, pulling at Regina’s hand.

 

“Kid, Regina hasn’t finished her coffee,” Emma says. “Give her a minute.” Henry nods and moments later he’s involved in a fantasy saga of his own creation, jabbering away to himself on the floor. Emma looks over at Regina, meets her eyes, feeling inexplicably nervous.

 

“He’s a lovely boy,” Regina says.

 

“Yeah,” Emma says. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”

 

Regina nods and takes a sip of her coffee. “I didn’t know,” she says. “I thought you were just late to annoy me. I’m sorry.” This apology, unlike the one in the car last night, is sincere.

 

Emma just shrugs. “It’s just me and Henry so sometimes things get hectic.”

 

“Of course,” Regina says. She drains her mug. “I really must go. Thank you for the coffee.”

 

Emma nods. “Kid, Regina’s leaving now.”

 

Henry looks up, his bottom lip sticking out and eyes wide and beseeching. “Mama, she can come back tomorrow?”

 

Regina bends down. “Not tomorrow, Henry, but I will see you soon.”

 

“Promise?”

 

Regina looks around at Emma, who nods. “Cross my heart,” she says.

 

Regina grabs her coat and leaves. Henry and Emma spend the rest of the time before dinner reading Doctor Seuss books. Before he goes to sleep, Henry hugs Emma and whispers in her ear, “Regina can come for dinner.”

 

Emma tries not to think about this over the next few days. She tries not to think about Regina’s smile or the unexpectedly human side to her, a side that’s never come out in her own brief encounters with the woman. Mary Margaret comes over for a drink on Saturday night, Emma exhausted after a full day at the bakery and with accounts and dealing with a fractious Henry.

 

Mary Margaret puts Henry to bed and reads him a story to give Emma a break. She cracks open one of the bottles of wine and when Mary Margaret gently shuts the door to Henry’s room, Emma is onto her second glass of pinot gris and has cut a swathe into the crackers and dip. “Fell asleep halfway through ‘The Lorax’,” Mary Margaret says, pouring herself a glass of wine and loading a rice cracker up with garlic hummus.

 

“Good,” Emma murmurs. “He’s decided he doesn’t need naps anymore and it’s driving me insane.”

 

“You’re a good mom, Emma,” Mary Margaret says, and there’s something motherly in her own tone. Emma knows that the woman, a whole two years older than Emma, looks at Emma very much as a sister. She also knows Mary Margaret can’t wait to have children of her own, that she’s only waiting for David to finish at vet school and get a job before they get married, buy a house and start popping out babies.

 

“I guess,” Emma says, meditative. She’s sometimes wondered whether she did the right thing keeping Henry. She’d been so close to adopting him out, giving him a better chance than an eighteen-year-old with no qualifications, citations for petty theft and no resources could give him. But the doctor put him in her arms and she just couldn’t give up her red-faced, wrinkly child, squalling and snuffling. She finishes her second glass in one gulp and pours a third. “Regina met him the other day.”

 

The horror on Mary Margaret’s face is palpable. “What? Why? Oh God, did she make him cry?”

 

Emma laughs. “Henry’s in _love_ with her,” she says. “It’s seriously adorable.” He’s got this toy koala, a gift from a brief acquaintance, which is normally called ‘Koala’ because children are very innovative in choosing names (though Emma shouldn’t talk since she calls her child ‘kid’) and last night when she got home, Henry had brought Koala into the living room and introduced Emma to ‘Regina’. “Has she had much to do with kids before?”

 

“Only child,” Mary Margaret says. “Didn’t babysit at high school. She might’ve had more to do with them since then.”

 

“One day you’re going to tell me why you know so much about her,” Emma says.

 

Mary Margaret sighs, drains her glass. “No, I’m not.”

 

“Ugh, fine,” Emma says. There’s a pleasant tingling in her throat, slackness in her speech.

 

“Why are you so interested anyway?” Mary Margaret asks. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked her.”

 

“I am not a thirteen-year-old girl,” Emma says, attempting to remain dignified as she slops wine down her front.

 

“That’s not a denial,” Mary Margaret points out.

 

“I don’t know,” Emma says, the wine having loosened her tongue. “She’s cute when she’s not being a terrible robot.” Anyway, she thinks, what would be the point? Emma’s had enough of crushing on straight, taken girls.

 

“Oh, honey,” Mary Margaret says, weaving an arm around her shoulders. “If you think Regina’s cute, you need to get laid. Let me set you up.”

 

“No,” Emma says flatly. “Can we drop it? How’s school?”

 

Mary Margaret sighs. “School’s good. I’m swamped with marking and one of my fourth graders is being a real piece of work and the board’s slashed our photocopying budget but I love it.” Mary Margaret teaches at a Catholic elementary school a few miles away. It’s her second year as a teacher so she’s still new to the game.

 

“Same fourth grader as last week? The one with the deodorant?” A boy had brought some sort of spray deodorant to school and when Mary Margaret had left the room, had sprayed it in her classroom until the can was empty.

 

“I left the room for one minute,” she says. “And I come back to that horror.” Emma laughs. “It’s not funny!” Mary Margaret insists. “Emily had an asthma attack! I smelt like pre-teen boy for two days!”

 

“It’s kind of funny,” Emma says. “What’s he doing now?”

 

“Well, he was stood down for a day and now he’s holding a grudge,” Mary Margaret says and expands on the latest escapades of the nine-year-old menace. Emma lies across the couch, comfortably drunk after almost a whole bottle of wine, and lets Mary Margaret’s voice wash over her.

 

She wakes up the next morning, still on the couch, with Henry’s face about half an inch from hers and his fingers pulling up her eyelids. “Mama!” he yells and Emma winces.

 

“Hey, kid,” she murmurs. Mary Margaret, bless her, has tidied up before she left; Emma can see wine glasses stacked on the wire rack in the kitchen from her position on the couch.

 

“Why you on the couch?”

 

“Fell asleep here last night,” she says. “Pretty silly, huh?”

 

“Very silly, Mama,” Henry says, crawling over her and doing his level best to step on her bladder. “Up now. Breakfast.”

 

After breakfast they spend the morning on the couch together, Henry watching ‘The Incredibles’ and Emma waking herself up with what ends up being a whole pot of coffee. Henry has a playdate in the afternoon with twins from his day care and Emma uses the time to practise her trumpet.

 

It’s been too long since she’s had a proper session. After warming up, scales, arpeggios and loud honking noises to piss off the woman next door with whom she’s still irritated, she pulls out her sheet music.

 

But she doesn’t want to practise for band, not yet anyway. Instead, she plays from memory, ‘Summertime’. The first song she’d ever played on the trumpet that made her feel good about her playing, that made her feel like it was something worth keeping.

 

She’d given up the trumpet when she was pregnant with Henry, left it to dust in the corner of the apartment she shared with several people. It wasn’t until he was six months old, teething and they were living in their first apartment of their own, bond paid by her first month as a waitress in a dive bar, that she’d pulled it out again. Henry had loved it, clapping his pudgy hands and grinning when she played. He didn’t care that she was out of practise, that her sound quality was crap, that she fudged her fingering. She played ‘Summertime’ and sun streamed through the open windows and Henry clapped and gurgled, and her eyes were wet with tears when the song ended.

 

Finally, she rehearses for band and then it’s time to pick Henry up and make dinner and get ready for the week. When she reads to him that night before bed, he’s got Regina the Koala by his side and he says, “Can Regina come and play?” Emma snorts. “Call her, Mama.”

 

“Not now, Henry,” she says gently but before she knows it, Henry’s grabbed her phone from where she’s placed it on his bedside table, scrolled through her contacts and found Regina’s picture. He presses on it with one chubby finger and Emma takes a moment before the horror sets in to marvel at Henry. He’s obsessed with her phone on the rare occasions he gets near it and knows how to make music play and find the games he likes – but she didn’t realise he knew how to call people.

 

He has the phone to his ear and is twisting away from Emma to stop her from hanging up. “Hi Regina!” he says and Emma stops in her pursuit of the phone. “It’s Henry.” There’s a pause. “You should come and play tomorrow.” Another pause. “Okay.” He holds the phone out. “She wants to talk to you, Mama.”

 

Emma reluctantly brings the phone to her ear. “Hey.”

 

“You must take better care of your phone, Ms Swan,” says the voice down the line.

 

“Henry’s a sneaky little…” she trails off, suddenly aware the sneaky little shit is glaring at her suspiciously.

 

“Lovely,” Regina says.

 

“Anyway, so, yeah,” Emma says. “Henry’s pretty much in love with you. He’s named his toy koala after you and everything.”

 

Regina doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “I wouldn’t be averse to seeing him again.”

 

Emma snorts. “Come over for dinner before you drive us to band,” she suggests and she’s kind of joking so when Regina readily agrees there’s a bit of squeaky horror in her voice when she says, “great! Five o’clock.”

 

“Good night, Ms Swan.”

 

“Night,” Emma says, hanging up. “All right, kid. Your buddy is coming for dinner on Wednesday before Mama goes to band.”

 

Henry sits up and wraps his little arms around Emma’s neck, squeezing tightly. “Love you, Mama!”

 

“Love you too, kiddo,” Emma says, smelling his freshly washed hair and kissing him. “Now, sleep tight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry is definitely a sneaky little shit.


	5. Accelerato

Regina is unaccountably nervous. She’s spent the afternoon, when she should have been studying, baking apple turnovers. She’s tried on several outfits, all of them utterly unsuitable for dinner with Emma Swan and her son (she remembers too well the discomfort of playing on the floor and pencil skirts), and band rehearsal later. Belle’s at the library working and Regina swallows her pride and calls the helpdesk.

 

“Hey,” Belle says, which Regina is pretty sure is not the way one should answer a helpdesk phone.

 

“Belle, it’s Regina.”

 

“Oh my God, is something on fire? I swear I unplugged my curling iron this morning.” The panic in Belle’s voice would be funny if Regina wasn’t so unaccountably anxious herself.

 

“No, nothing like that. It’s just, I don’t know what to wear!” It bursts out of her and it takes all of Regina’s willpower not to hang up the phone immediately, especially when Belle’s hysterical laughter winds down the phone.

 

“Oh, you are so gone,” Belle murmurs and Regina thinks about correcting her because, seriously, Emma Swan? “Also, pants.”

 

“What?”

 

“Wear trousers. You’ve been invited over by the kid, not his mom. Wear the jeans that make your arse look amazing.”

 

Surprisingly sound advice. “Okay,” she says.

 

“Well,” Belle says, alarmingly chipper. “I _am_ the helpdesk. And stop rolling your eyes, Regina Mills,” she adds.

 

Regina hangs up on her. And thirty minutes later she’s on Emma’s stoop, dressed in jeans and carrying a Tupperware container. She rings the buzzer labelled ‘Swan’. Last time she was here, she got lucky with an incoming neighbour but not so fortunate this time. “Buzzing you in,” Emma says.

 

At the door, Emma looks her up and down. “Nice jeans.”

 

Regina rolls her eyes and then Henry’s at the door. “Regina!” he yells and tackles her legs. She feels herself falling, the weight against her legs too much, but then Emma grabs her arm, pulls her upright. She’s surprisingly gentle and her blonde hair brushes Regina’s neck and shoulders, making her shiver.

 

“Careful, kid,” Emma says. “Regina won’t want to see you if you knock her over.”

 

“It’s fine,” Regina says, pulling herself away from Emma. “Here, dessert,” and she thrusts the Tupperware at Emma, almost as a way of keeping her distance.

 

“Thanks!” Emma says. “Look at this, kiddo. Regina’s made us dessert.”

 

“Yum!” Henry says, grabbing Regina’s hand, his little palm soft and warm in hers and Regina thinks she’ll never get used to this feeling, the warmth and ease settling over her. “C’mon.” He drags her to the table and makes her sit down.

 

“We’re having spaghetti,” Emma says. “Hope that’s okay.”

 

“I’m sure it will be lovely,” Regina says smoothly. “How was your day, Henry?”

 

“Good,” he says. “I made a picture.” He jumps down from his seat and runs into his room. Emma’s in the kitchen and Regina takes a moment to observe her surroundings. It’s small, smaller than the place she and Belle share even, with room for a couch, bookshelf, the tiny dining room table and a TV. One wall is entirely covered in paintings done by Henry, his name written in neat print in the corner of each one. Photos in frames adorn the bookshelves, just Emma and Henry, no one else. Regina wonders for the first time about Henry’s father.

 

“Here.” Henry’s standing beside her, holding out a piece of paper adorned with paint. “It’s for you.”

 

She shouldn’t feel like crying. This is ridiculous. Snap out of it. “Thank you, Henry,” she says, taking the artwork. “I will treasure it.” And, Regina Mills, who has never been one for displays of affection, scoops him up on to her lap and hugs him tight.

 

The light of a flash goes off. Emma’s standing there, phone in hand. “See,” she says. “Told you I’d take a nicer photo when I liked you more.” Then, in a more business-like tone, she adds, “we should eat though because God forbid we’re late for band.”

 

Regina just glares at her. “You’re an idiot.”

 

Emma clasps her hand to her heart. “You wound me,” she says, stumbling back melodramatically. Henry giggles. Emma puts a handful of carrot sticks on his plate and dishes him up spaghetti, using his knife to cut it up for him. “Help yourself,” she says to Regina, who dishes up a small portion and fills the plate with salad.

 

Henry’s face is quickly covered in tomato and Regina is surprised at how tasty the spaghetti is. “What’s in it?” she asks.

 

“Mostly tinned tomatoes,” Emma says, shrugging. “Lots of herbs and a bit of bacon. One of the few things I can cook that Henry’ll eat and I figured you wouldn’t be into mac and cheese or chicken nuggets.”

 

“You thought right,” Regina says, spearing lettuce onto a fork.

 

Henry provides much of the conversation over dinner and when Emma sends him to get a flannel to wipe his face, there’s an awkward silence for a moment. “Do you have childcare for the retreat?” Regina asks eventually.

 

“Yeah,” Emma says. “He’ll stay with my neighbour, Ari, for the weekend. He gets on well with her little girl. Should I put the turnover in the oven?”

 

“Low heat,” Regina says. “Ten minutes.”

 

Henry returns when Emma’s in the kitchen, sopping wet flannel dripping water everywhere. He’s trying unsuccessfully to wipe his face. “Want some help?” Regina asks and he hands it to her. She squeezes the excess water onto her plate and wipes away the sauce around his mouth gently.

 

“Hey, thanks,” Emma says, returning. “You didn’t have to do that.” She stacks the plates.

 

“Regina, read me story,” Henry says, tugging on her arm insistently.

 

Regina allows herself to be dragged over to the couch. She’s given ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ and Henry curls up beside her, tracing the pictures with his index finger and mouthing along with the words as she says them.

 

“Apple turnover,” Emma says, bringing out three bowls and a tub of ice cream, her skill as a waitress coming into play. “I even found half a pint of ice cream.”

 

Henry looks outraged, mouth gaping open and eyes narrowing. “You said there was no more.”

 

“I lied, kid,” Emma says, kissing his forehead.

 

Henry’s digging into the pastry and apple and ice cream so he doesn’t protest too much at his mother’s cruel lies. Emma’s groan when she tastes the turnover is almost obscene. “Oh my God,” she moans. “This is amazing.”

 

Regina looks at her watch. “We should go soon,” she says.

 

Henry frowns. “No thank you.”

 

Emma laughs. “Sorry, kid. Them’s the breaks.” Henry glares at his dessert as though it has deceived him. “I’ll be there to pick you up from Ari’s before you can say boo.” Reluctantly, Henry agrees to this but insists on a kiss from Regina before he leaves for Ari’s. She feels a surge of affection for the little boy who has let her into his heart so readily. She’s never had much to do with kids before but she thinks she likes it.

 

She and Emma go downstairs to Emma’s awful yellow bug. Regina steps gingerly into the car, trying to avoid the debris cluttering the floor. “Sorry,” Emma says, doing her best to clear away mess.

 

As Emma drives, Regina gathers up the courage to ask, “Where’s Henry’s father?”

 

“He doesn’t have one,” Emma says shortly. “Not one that counts anyway.” Regina watches her face, the lines at the side of her mouth sharp and deep, her green eyes glaring at the road. As if subconsciously, Emma removes a hand from the steering wheel and fiddles with the pendant of her necklace, a silver swan.

 

“Sorry,” Regina says. She’s developing a habit of saying this to Ms Swan.

 

“No problem,” Emma says. “I guess it’s natural to wonder. It’s not like I’m the Virgin Mary.”

 

Regina laughs, though the guilty, rat-like part of her that’s still fourteen and devoutly Catholic feels ashamed for finding something sacrilegious funny. They arrive at band in plenty of time and Regina allows herself to focus entirely on warming up and practising. She hasn’t had enough time this week to practise. Her mid-term results were not what she’d hoped, a couple of A minuses marring her perfect grade point average, and she has to do better, be better.

 

When Belle arrives, she smirks at Regina’s jeans but says nothing. Regina knows she’ll hear about it later and dreads it. She can’t sort out the strange and new things she’s feeling; she wonders if it’s just the affection she feels for Henry making her look at Emma in a new light, but then that wouldn’t have any effect on the way she feels about Emma’s muscular arms or her goofy smile or the curls she wants to drag her fingers through.

 

It’s just physical, she thinks. She can’t start to want Emma Swan like this. She’s good at pushing down feelings. She’s been doing it all her life because bad stuff happens when she doesn’t. She looks over at Emma, who is chatting with Graham, smiling, and she feels a ridiculous surge of jealousy.

 

“Let’s make a start,” Gold says. “Tuning note please, Mr Hopper.” Archie plays the tuning C and Regina readies herself. For once the clarinets are all in tune. They run through scales. “We’ll warm up with ‘Cantina Band’,” Gold says, another old faithful, one that Regina hates because it’s so high and so fast and she always feels like she’s skipping half the notes.

 

It’s undeniably fun though and when she catches Emma’s eye, Emma is grinning, chest rising and falling beneath her skimpy tank top. And then she turns to Graham and whispers something close in his ear and there it is again, the jealousy.

 

“Now,” Gold says, rapping his stand with his baton to get silence. “I assume we’ve all practised the ‘Chicago’ medley.” Regina finds the music, feeling underprepared.

 

It starts with Emma on trumpet for ‘All that Jazz’; she’s using a mute, distorting the sound. Her sound is crisp and clear. The saxophones, led by Ruby, shine in ‘Cell Block Tango’. Mary Margaret and her flutes play Roxie’s insipid number and Regina supposes that they play well. Gold becomes frenetic at ‘They Both Reached for the Gun’, bouncing on the soles of his feet, faster and faster as the music quickens.

 

“Not good enough,” he barks. “It needs to be sexier. You’ve got to play it dirty. From ‘Cell Block Tango’.”

 

This isn’t a major part for the clarinets, so Regina’s able to observe, watch Ruby playing a solo on the saxophone, pressing herself into the curves of the saxophone, her every move sexual. It’s bizarrely intoxicating and Regina blushes and catches Emma’s eye, noting the woman’s own pink cheeks that she doesn’t think are down to the extra air needed to play the trumpet. Emma raises her eyebrows. And then Regina hears her cue and that’s the end of it.

 

“Better,” Gold says. “Take a break, folks.”

 

Regina watches Emma move across the room to Mary Margaret, feels a stab of anger in her gut. She didn’t realise they knew each other. What has Mary Margaret told her? “How was it?” Belle asks, resting her arms across the back of Regina’s chair, words tickling her ear.

 

“Fine,” Regina says. “Her little boy is precious.”

 

“And Emma?” Belle asks. “You two getting along better?”

 

“I suppose,” Regina replies.

 

“I’m not blind,” Belle says. “There’s been some definite eye-sex happening across this room.”

 

“As opposed to what amounts to actual sex between Ruby and her saxophone?” Regina snaps.

 

“Hey,” Ruby says, sauntering past, all high heels and tight pants. “I promised to respect her in the morning.”

 

“Your saxophone has a gender?” Belle asks. Regina shuffles around so that the conversation doesn’t take place across her head. Belle’s smiling doe-eyed up at Ruby.

 

“Her name’s Iris,” Ruby says. “She’s a classy dame.”

 

“She sure is,” Belle says, laughing.

 

Regina decides this will be a good time to leave the conversation and moves over to where Graham is standing. “Hey you,” he says, pulling her into a one-armed hug. “Talked to your mom yet?”

 

“Not yet,” Regina says. “I’m delaying the inevitable fight.” She rests her head against his arm, finding comfort in the totally platonic embrace. She wonders sometimes why he agreed to help her. Since she’s essentially a selfish human being she hasn’t pushed him about it; she doesn’t want to give him any reason to rethink his choices.

 

“She can’t blame you for this,” Graham says.

 

Oh Graham, Regina thinks. My mother will quite happily blame me for everything.

 

Gold calls rehearsal back and Regina returns to her seat, picks up her clarinet and retunes. She does not look over at Emma Swan and when rehearsal finishes she packs up quickly and waits by the door. Emma’s over a moment later. “Shall we?” she says, gesturing to the door.

 

The car ride is mostly silent, punctured when Regina says, “I didn’t know you were friends with Mary Margaret Blanchard.” She can’t help the sneer that edges its way into her voice and she doesn’t especially want to help it.

 

“Yeah,” Emma says. “She said she knows you from way back actually. How?”

 

“We grew up together,” Regina says, feeling the cold seep into her voice and body. “End of that discussion.”

 

“Hey, you brought it up, not me,” Emma says. “It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it. Did you and Graham fight?”

 

“No,” Regina says.

 

“I’m not judging,” Emma says and the babbling is back. “Couples fight all the time. I used to fight with my ex, like, constantly about really stupid shit, never the really important stuff but about not liking his shirt and whose turn it was to get gas.”

 

Regina laughs, the sound cold and bitter even to her own ears. The rest of the drive is done without talking; Emma puts the radio on and sings along quietly to terrible top forty radio that, if Regina were in a better mood, she’d bicker with her about.

 

They pull up outside Regina’s building and Regina opens the door. “Thank you, Ms Swan,” she says. “I will see you next week.”

 

Emma reaches out a hand and grabs her arm, the touch warm. “Hey, I’m sorry that I offended you or whatever.”

 

“You didn’t,” Regina says and screws her courage to the sticking place. “Graham and I, we’re not a couple.”

 

“Yeah?” Emma asks. “So he’s like a fuck buddy? I get that.”

 

“He’s my beard,” Regina says, the words out before she can rethink them. “Mostly for my mother’s benefit but we just kind of don’t correct people if we don’t need to.”

 

“Your beard?” Emma asks. “Then you’re…”

 

“A lesbian,” Regina says. “Yes. See you next Wednesday.” And she exits the car. She’s at the door to her apartment building, fumbling for her keys when she hears the footsteps behind her. She turns, keys jammed between her fingers.

 

“Thanks for telling me,” Emma says. Her hands are crammed in her jacket pocket and she’s frowning.

 

“Emma Swan, you’re parked in the middle of the street,” Regina says, already regretting that brief moment of vulnerability in front of Emma.

 

She shrugs. “Street’s pretty dead.”

 

“Well, that makes breaking the law fine then.”

 

“Oh shut up,” Emma says but there’s no bite behind the words. “I just, it’s okay.”

 

Regina sniffs. “I’m so glad my life choices meet with your approval.”

 

Emma reaches out, gives her an awkward pat on the upper arm and bounds back to her car. Regina’s left staring after the yellow bug, trying not to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely reviews last chapter. I'm not 100% on this chapter - something about it is off to me but I wanted to get something posted. 
> 
> Next chapter will be the start of the band camp arc, which should be fun.


	6. Con Spirito

The next couple of weeks fly by.

 

Regina coming over for dinner before rehearsals starts to become a pattern; she brings a lasagne the first week and Henry falls in love with her even more. “Can you make this every night, Mama?” he says, cheese and tomatoes smeared around his mouth and total adoration in his brown eyes.

 

Emma laughs. “Sorry, kid,” she says. “Perhaps Regina will teach me.”

 

Regina sniffs. She has been such a cow all afternoon that Emma swears never again, but then when she has finished cleaning up, she watches Regina with Henry on the couch. There, she is all smiles and soft eyes and hesitant gestures and Emma realises that Regina’s regretting her vulnerability from the last week.

 

In the car to rehearsal, Regina drives at her usual manic pace and Emma wants to tell her that it’s okay; she can trust her to keep her secret. What comes out instead is, “I’m a bit gay too, you know?”

 

Regina turns to look at her, this expression of ‘oh my God, how did an idiot like you survive childhood’ on her face, and Emma squeezes her eyes tight shut, hoping that maybe there’ll be an apocalypse or an earthquake or some sort of supernatural phenomenon and she won’t have to deal with Regina Mills ever again. “Sorry,” she says, grimacing. “I wanted to be reassuring or vulnerable or something so you wouldn’t have to act like a shit anymore and instead I just, like, came out with the stupidest sentence possible.”

 

Regina shakes her head. “You are so ridiculous,” she says.

 

Emma nods. “True,” she says. “And you’re kind of an asshole.”

 

Regina’s knuckles tighten around the steering wheel. Then she relaxes, nodding as though conceding the point. “So when you say a bit gay?”

 

“I’m bi,” Emma says. “Though at the moment I’m celibate because, you know, small child, three jobs. Mary Margaret keeps trying to set me up with people, thinks I need to get laid…” She’s rambling again.

 

“Spare me,” Regina drawls. Emma pokes out her tongue and Regina adds, “What, are you five? I’m beginning to regret carpooling with you.”

 

“You get on fine with Henry,” Emma says. “Stands to reason that five-year-old me would be a step up.”

 

“Henry has better manners and more intellectual conversation,” Regina replies.

 

The next week, Emma cooks dinner and Henry sulks because she’s trying to impress Regina and so she makes French onion soup (because it’s one of their lunchtime specials at the bakery so she can do it well) and Henry has decided this week that he hates soup even though three weeks ago he wouldn’t eat anything except for pumpkin soup and Emma was worried he’d turn orange.

 

Henry and Regina are in the midst of an involved game of horses when Emma enters the living room with the pot of soup, ladle clutched between her teeth because her soup pot is really heavy and takes two hands. Regina’s in jeans again – the dark denim fitted to the curves of her backside and hips in such a way that Emma kind of loses track of her thoughts if she doesn’t focus really hard on what she’s saying – and a light fitted shirt. The shirt is currently pulled halfway up her back because Henry’s sitting on her back, nudging her sides with his feet in an effort to make her move faster.

 

“Giddyup,” he yells, brandishing an empty paper towel roll. Emma places the soup on the table and takes a moment to appreciate Regina totally at ease. She’s padding around the room, neighing and rearing and Emma’s impressed with her fortitude when Henry grabs her hair in lieu of reins.

 

“Soup’s up,” she says and Regina collapses, flat on the floor, letting Henry off and then rolling onto her back. Emma tries not to stare at the smooth, olive skin of her stomach and instead draws her eyes up to Regina’s face, her eyes sparkling where they catch the light and the most natural smile Emma’s ever seen on her. She reaches out a hand and Emma takes it, hauling her up. Emma doesn’t mean to but she ends up stroking along Regina’s thumb, feeling the callus that over a decade of clarinet playing has created at the knuckle.

 

At rehearsal that week, Gold reminds them of band camp that weekend. “The bus leaves at seven thirty sharp on Friday night,” he says.

 

“Where are we going again?” Emma mutters to Graham.

 

“Somewhere out of Brunswick in Maine,” Graham says. “Gold’s got connections in Maine and he manages to get us free accommodation.”

 

“A reminder; there is no night life where we are going,” Gold says. “Alcohol is fine but you must be able to perform the next day. I will be waking people early on Saturday and Sunday and anyone hung-over will face my wrath.”

 

“And then they’ll have to deal with Regina,” Belle says and there’s a ripple of laughter, mostly from the clarinets. Regina raises an eyebrow.

 

“It’s fun though, right?” Emma asks as she drives Regina home.

 

“It’s an excellent opportunity to rehearse,” Regina says.

 

“You’re such a robot,” Emma says. “Bleep blorp, what is this fun, human woman?” She laughs.

 

She can’t look over because she has to change lanes soon and it’s taking all of her concentration but she’s pretty sure Regina’s rolling her eyes. “Your wit astounds me,” she says. “In answer to the question I had not finished answering, people certainly have a good time.”

 

“Do you?” Emma asks.

 

“Sometimes,” Regina says and it’s a pretty honest answer.

 

“We’re going to have fun this year,” Emma says, pulling up outside Regina’s apartment. “Promise.”

 

“Are you going to wow me with your witty repartee?” Regina asks.

 

“You love it,” Emma says. Regina just grabs her clarinet and shuts the car door behind her.

 

On Friday at a bit before seven, Emma drops a bathed Henry, dressed in his pyjamas, over at Ari’s place, weekend bag in tow. “Thank you so much for this,” she says, handing over her car keys. Ari’s going to use the bug for the weekend, as part payment for looking after Henry. “I don’t know what time I’ll be back on Sunday but I’ll text you.”

 

“Not a problem,” Ari says. “We might go to the zoo on Sunday afternoon, right, Melody?” Melody grins. She’s not much of a talker, which suits Henry just fine because he can babble away uninterrupted for hours if you let him.

 

Emma kneels down. “All right, kid, I’ve got to go.”

 

Henry clasps his arms around her neck. “Don’t leave me, Mama.”

 

“Hey, hey, we talked about this. Mama’s got to go and rehearse with her band. I’ll be back before you know it and you’re going to have an awesome time with Ari and Melody.”

 

“I miss you,” he says and her heart nearly breaks. She’s never left Henry before for more than an evening. He’ll be fine. He’s a resilient kid. She’s not so sure about herself.

 

“I’m going to miss you so much too,” she says. “I’ll call you lots.” With some difficulty, she prises Henry’s arms from around her neck and lets him be shuffled into the apartment by Ari and Melody. She mouths a quick ‘thanks’ and leaves. Regina’s already there to take her to the bus, along with Belle and Graham. She throws her duffle bag and instrument into the boot and slides into the back with Belle.

 

“You’re almost on time,” Regina says. “I’m shocked.”

 

“Oh, shut up,” Emma says, buckling up and wiping a rebellious tear from her eye.

 

She ends up next to Archie on the bus, Regina having paired off with Graham, Belle with Ruby and Mary Margaret with David. Archie has a large clinical psychology text book on his lap and appears intent on reading so Emma doesn’t bother him. Instead, she tries to relax, this being the first time in so long where there’s nothing she could or should be doing – no Henry, no housework, no work, no practice…

 

Belle and Ruby are deep in conversation at the front of the bus. Emma can see their heads meet in the space between the seats. Mary Margaret’s curled up against David, eyes closed. Emma catches his eye and he rolls his own. She likes David; he’s dependable. He’ll never leave Mary Margaret, she’ll always be able to rely on him, and there’s something romantic about that to Emma.

 

A couple of rows ahead is Regina and Graham, Regina’s head bowed, headphones in and foot in its black ballet flat tapping a rhythm in the aisle. Emma kind of wishes she was sitting with her. She’d like to talk about Henry and Regina’s always a willing audience.

 

They’re on the motorway, cars streaming past and from what she can see in the dusk, it’s grey everywhere, just roads and factories and cars. She shuffles around in her seat, knocking Archie’s book. “Sorry,” she mutters.

 

“You’re all right,” Archie says and returns to his reading, tongue peeping out of his mouth as he concentrates. She knows through the grapevine that Archie’s doing his PhD. He seems a sweet enough guy but she can’t help but be intimidated by his brains. She never made it through high school, dropping out half way into her senior year because she got pregnant. She’s got her GED, did an online accountancy course (she’s always been good with figures), and is proud of what she’s achieved. All the same though, sometimes she’s made all too aware of her inadequacies.

 

She’s been up since five and the movement of the bus is surprisingly soothing. She finds herself dozing off. She wakes with a jolt when the bus stops, brakes loud and jerky. It’s dark out the window, the only lights from a building in the distance. Next to her, Archie’s trying to carefully extricate his arm from beneath her head. “Sorry,” she says, desperately hoping that she hasn’t drooled on him.

 

Once off the bus, she grabs her bag and trumpet from where the driver is stacking their belongings. “Everyone up to the common room,” Gold yells, his Scottish brogue cutting through the chatter. “Follow the lights.”

 

Emma finds herself walking up the path with Ruby, the poor girl dealing with a wheelie suitcase on the gravel path and her saxophone case, which is much more cumbersome than a trumpet. “You okay?” Emma asks.

 

“Fine,” Ruby says. “It’s my own stupid fault.” She laughs. “Every year.”

 

Victor, the bass player, speeds past them, his huge bass strapped to his back and only a small duffle bag in his hand. “Lucas, you amateur.”

 

“Shut your face, Whale,” Ruby yells after him. To Emma she says, “He’s such a wanker. Great in bed though if you’re interested.”

 

“Okay,” Emma says, dubious. “Thanks for the tip.”

 

“No, seriously,” Ruby says. “He does this thing with his teeth… But he’s also a douchebag so you have to weigh it up against that.”

 

Emma laughs. “There’s a fair amount of the absurd in you, isn’t there?”

 

They reach the common room, dumping their stuff at one end and grabbing one of the few couches. It’s a pretty bare room, a few faded paintings of trees on the walls and, aside from the couches, the only furniture is a foosball table. As people enter, Ruby gives a running commentary. “So Killian has this totally one-sided crush on David Nolan even though he’s convinced himself he’s in love with Tina,” she says, pointing at the trombonist wearing too much eyeliner and flirting with Tina, the tiny blonde piccolo player. “Ashley’s saving herself for marriage.” A mousey blonde places a clarinet case and suitcase near the door. “Archie’s a genius. I’ll probably marry him one day because he’ll be filthy rich and he’s all into empathy so you can just bet he’d be really, like, generous in bed.”

 

Emma’s laughing so hard she can barely breathe at this point. Ruby gives Archie a coquettish wave and he scurries over the opposite side of the room. Belle, Graham and Regina come in. There’s no couch space left so Graham sits on the floor cross-legged and Belle leans up against Ruby’s legs. The look on Ruby’s face is pretty besotted. Regina stands, arms crossed, foot tapping. “I’m not sitting on the floor,” she says.

 

There is a collective eye roll. Then Belle says, “Sit on Emma’s lap.” She and Graham nudge each other because apparently this is high school and they’re all fifteen. Ruby laughs, more a bark than a laugh really.

 

Regina is frozen in place, foot mid-tap and eyes wide. Emma shuffles over, until she’s basically sitting on the arm of the couch. “There’s room now,” she says and, while Regina doesn’t say anything, her eyes say a hell of a lot. It’s hideously uncomfortable on the arm of the couch, one butt cheek totally unsupported, but she’s leaning against Regina, can feel the ends of her dark hair tickle her arm.

 

“Eyes this way,” Gold yells and they settle. “Right,” he says. “Get an early night tonight. Breakfast is at seven. Rehearsals start at seven forty five. We’ll start as a full band before breaking into sectionals for a couple of hours, and then back as a band after lunch. Tomorrow evening is your own. Sunday is a similar programme, but at two o’clock we’re heading into Storybrooke for a concert before returning home.”

 

Beside her, Regina tenses and Graham shoots her a glance.

 

“You’ll be sharing rooms and this year it has been decided that in order to promote ‘inter-band bonding’ – “ Gold couldn’t sound more sarcastic if he’d actually made the quotation marks with his fingers “ – room assignments will be random and with someone not in your section.”

 

Emma chances a glance across the couch and notices that Ruby seems inordinately pleased with herself. Shit.

 

“The rooms are down the corridor,” Gold says, pointing at double doors leading off the common room. “In room one, Graham and David. In room two, Killian and Victor. In room three, Ruby and Belle.” Yeah, Belle and Ruby definitely had something to do with this. Gold continues reading through the list. “In room twelve, Regina and Emma.”

 

There it is. Regina’s so stiff beside her she’s practically a statue and Emma can’t bring herself to look at her, see the ice in her eyes. She thought they were getting along. She thought that Regina might not hate so very much to have to spend time around her. Instead, she glares at Belle who looks up at the ceiling and whistles because apparently she’s a cartoon character now.

 

When Gold dismisses them, Regina heads straight for him, swift and angry. Emma turns to Ruby. “What the hell?”

 

“You’ll thank us later,” Ruby says, waggling her eyebrows.

 

“I don’t think Regina will,” Emma says. “And also, by the way, we’re just friends, barely that.” She grabs her bag and trumpet and storms off down the corridor to find room twelve.

 

The key’s in the door. Emma removes it and claims the bed closer to the window. The curtains are open and the room is cold. There’s a creepy picture of a clown on the wall and Emma just barely resists the urge to turn it so it’s facing the wall (or alternatively put it under Regina’s pillow). Instead, she closes the curtains, grabs her phone and checks. There’s a text from Ari.

 _Henry asleep._ She’s attached a short video of Henry splayed out across the bed, snoring up a storm and clutching his koala toy. Emma laughs though her eyes are wet.

 

The door to the room opens and Regina enters. “Swan,” she says, nodding curtly.

 

“Did we just step into a Victorian boarding school novel, Mills?” Emma asks, pulling pyjamas – or rather a tee-shirt and boxers – out of her bag.

 

Regina’s silent, lying on her bed and reading, while Emma changes. She’s in the same position, knees bent, book held close to her face on Emma’s return from brushing her teeth. “So,” Emma says, sitting cross-legged on her own bed. “What’s the deal with you and Storybrooke?”

 

Regina closes her book, throwing it on the floor with what seems like unnecessary force. “None of your business.” She grabs a handful of clothes and her sponge bag and stalks out of the room.

 

“That went well,” Emma says. She lies down on her back, eyeing up the stain on the ceiling over her bed, and starts a game of Fruit Ninja.

 

Regina’s fidgeting with her neatly folded pile of clothes when she returns. She looks like she’s on the verge of saying something. Instead, she gestures at the lights. “You ready?”

 

Emma chucks her phone on the ground beside her bed. “Sure.”

 

Regina turns off the lights and Emma can see her faint outline burrowing under the covers. “Storybrooke’s my hometown,” Regina says eventually. “I like to be prepared before I go back there. That’s why I was talking to Gold. It had nothing to do with rooming.”

 

Emma lies there in silence for a moment, the only sound the rise and fall of Regina’s breath. “Henry’s father is called Neal,” she says. “He was my trumpet teacher for a while and he’s Gold’s son. Gold doesn’t know.” She doesn’t want Gold to know because Gold will tell Neal and Neal thinks Emma got an abortion; he gave her money for it when she told him she was pregnant.

 

“Why are you telling me this?” Regina asks.

 

“A truth for a truth, right?” Emma says and Regina laughs, the sound harsh and barking.

 

“Good night, Emma,” she says and soon all Emma hears is Regina breathing and the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the reviews! 
> 
> I'm really enjoying writing this band camp arc, so hopefully that comes through.


	7. Deciso

 

Gold’s idea of waking people up is to send Graham down the corridors with a bugle playing ‘Reveille’ at six thirty in the morning because he is a complete and utter bastard. Regina’s still asleep when she hears the first notes of the bugle. She’s been operating on so little sleep during the week that her body has been using the weekends to catch up and her body is telling her that six thirty is definitely an unacceptable time. Blearily she raises her head and sees Emma, sitting on her bed with her phone out, fully dressed and far too awake for this time of morning.

 

“I hate you,” she grizzles, screwing up her face.

 

“If Henry lived with you, you’d be a morning person too,” Emma says, chipper.

 

Regina grabs her clothes and toiletries, stalks out of the room and showers. The hot water revives her somewhat and she tries not to think about the night spent lying just feet away from Emma Swan. She’d slept poorly, in part because of nerves about returning unexpectedly to Storybrooke and also because Emma makes these cute little noises when she sleeps and it’s becoming increasingly clear to Regina that she finds Emma attractive.

 

This certainly doesn’t mean she has to act on it.

 

On her return to the room, she feels slightly more alert or, at least, awake enough to remember the brief conversation from the night before. “So Gold is Henry’s grandfather?” she asks.

 

Emma winces before schooling her face into a more neutral expression. “I have no interest in Neal or Gold having anything to do with my kid. What’s so bad about Storybrooke that you need to be prepared?”

 

“Nothing,” Regina says. “Except my mother will be there.”

 

“Your mother’s seriously that bad?” Emma asks.

 

“I love my mother,” Regina says, slipping her feet into boots. “She’s an incredible woman.”

 

“Didn’t answer my question,” Emma says, standing.

 

“No, I didn’t,” Regina says. It is one thing to talk in the dark, when you can imagine you’re talking to no one, to nothing, but quite another to face the person in the cold, grey light of Saturday morning. “Let’s go to breakfast.”

 

After a couple of wrong turns they find the dining hall. They seem to be there early; Gold’s sitting at the end of one of the long tables, eating cereal, and Archie’s got his laptop out and is sipping absentmindedly at a cup of coffee.

 

“What is this place normally?” Emma asks, loading up a tray at the breakfast bar with hash browns and scrambled eggs.

 

Regina grabs the muesli and yoghurt. “I think it’s an arts and crafts camp in the summer and a conference centre the rest of the time.” Emma picks at the corner of a hash brown and groans at the taste, a sheen of grease coating her fingertips. “Coffee?” Regina asks and Emma nods.

 

They sit across from each other and are soon joined by Belle and Ruby. Ruby looks entirely too pleased with herself and Belle slumps against Regina’s shoulder, every limb relaxed. Normally Regina’s not into being touched, but Belle gets an occasional pass. “Good night?” Regina asks acerbically.

 

Belle looks over at Ruby at the breakfast bar and practically purrs. “So good.”

 

“In those tiny beds?” Emma asks, eyebrows raised.

 

“Who says we made it to a bed?” Belle says. In response to what must be an absolutely disgusted look on Regina’s face, she just giggles.

 

Graham arrives at this point and Regina punches him in the arm. “That’s for ‘Reveille’ right outside our door.”

 

“Hey!” he says. “I didn’t have a choice.”

 

“Oh, you had a choice,” Regina says, lips curving into a smile and voice deepening. “You chose wrong.”

 

“You’re a bit terrifying, you know that, right?” Emma says, a forkful of scrambled eggs halfway to her mouth.

 

Regina laughs though it unfortunately comes out as a bit of a witch’s cackle. Belle, Ruby and Graham all swivel and stare at her. “It’s very early in the morning,” she grouses. “Leave me alone.”

 

By the time they’ve eaten, Gold’s starting to patrol to chivvy people along and Regina returns to the room, grabs her clarinet and makes her way to the rehearsal space, a conference room that has been repurposed for the weekend. Gold’s had the room set up the way it always is back in Boston. Victor’s over at the side with his bass and the three percussionists – Aurora, Mulan and August – are setting up the array of instruments, including a drum kit and timpani, which normally stay in the band rooms week in and week out. They’re all delightfully uninterested in her and she takes a moment, free from the noise and chatter and _Emma_.

 

Because Emma told her something real last night, something painful and something that Regina worries that she regrets telling. Regina did the same three weeks ago. She can no longer pretend that there’s no connection between them. She hates it though, hates the way that Emma’s breaking down these barriers, all the tight controls she has in place for her own self-preservation, and tomorrow she has to see her mother so she can’t afford weak spots in her barricades.

 

The rehearsal room starts to fill and Regina determinedly does not look over at Emma when she enters, remaining focused on the music in front of her. When Gold calls rehearsal into session, she feels like she might have burned a hole in her score with the power of her gaze but doesn’t have a clue what she’s been playing.

 

They begin with ‘Danny Boy’. Sometimes, when they perform this, Gold gets one of the band members to sing. Only if there’s someone good enough in the correct style though and there hasn’t been anyone suitable for the piece in a couple of years. Ruby does anything jazzy, being in her junior year of jazz studies, with a vocals speciality. Mary Margaret does anything that requires a soprano. David is invariably the male vocalist. Regina remembers trying not to throw up when they performed a medley from ‘Grease’ at a children’s concert last year and she had to watch them sing ‘Summer Loving’.

 

“Sloppy,” Gold says. “Just because it’s slow is no excuse to relax. Again.”

 

They play again and Regina focuses her mind entirely on the music, tonguing crisper. She knows most of the band hate this (almost as much as they hated Elgar’s ‘Nimrod’ a couple of years ago) because of the pace, but Regina loves it. She loves the full, rich sound she can create. She loves the melancholy. She loves the build up to _forte_ , the intensity of the swell in the music. She loves that if played particularly well, it will make old people cry. It happened at one of their concerts earlier in the year.

 

“Better,” Gold concedes, though his lips are still pinched. “Without the percussion and bass this time.” They play again and Regina makes notes at the end – some slurring that should be marcatto from somewhere in her section. They’ll work on that in their section.

 

Rehearsals continue with their latest piece, ‘Galop’. It’s a piece where the trombonists and flautists take centre stage but it is fun to play regardless, fast and loud, which is what their band does best. Regina has not really focused much of her attention on it, to be honest, but it’s pretty straightforward for the clarinet – a welcome change where so much of the clarinet music for a symphonic band is transposed violin scores, with no consideration paid to how vastly different the instruments are.

 

“Grab a coffee and then move into sections,” Gold says. “Section leaders; focus on the new pieces, please.” The rest of the morning is spent in their sections, Regina enjoying taking charge. They work through ‘Galop’, slowly and then quicker until they’re reaching Gold speeds.

 

“Ashley, you’re slurring that passage,” Regina says. “Stop. Can you play it separately?”

 

Ashley bites her lip and does so. She’s playing quietly, the sound rougher and huskier, but she’s putting the effort into the staccato notes. “Better,” Regina says. “Have confidence in your playing. Gold doesn’t take on people who aren’t good.” Ashley visibly brightens. “David, you might be due a new reed.”

 

He nods. “I have one soaking in my room. I’ll get it after lunch.”

 

“All right,” she says. “From the top then.”

 

Later, after lunch and more rehearsal as a full orchestra, she returns to her room and finds Emma on the phone. “You went to the park? Man, you’re having the best weekend, kid,” Emma says. Regina goes to leave but then Emma says, “Regina just came in.” She holds out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

 

Bizarrely touched, Regina takes the phone. “Hello Henry.”

 

“Hi, Regina,” Henry says, voice high and echoing down the phone line. “Are you having a nice time?”

 

“I’m having a lovely time,” she says. “How are you?”

 

“I’m very well, thank you,” he says, absurdly formal, and Regina stifles a laugh. “Is Mama okay?”

 

“Your mama is great,” Regina says, looking over at Emma. “She misses you lots though. I’ll give you back to her.”

 

“Bye, Regina.”

 

“Goodbye, Henry,” she says and hands the phone back. Emma farewells Henry and hangs up.

 

“Good day?” she asks. “I’ve hardly seen you.”

 

“Very productive,” Regina says. “How was leading your first sectional?” she adds.

 

Emma frowns. “Hard. They’re such a boys’ club.” Emma’s the only female in the brass section and Regina’s suddenly grateful for her clarinettists who are compliant and focused and take direction. “Any tips?” she asks.

 

“Humiliation works well,” Regina says and laughs at the look of abject horror on Emma’s face. “You’re a teacher. Use the same skills.”

 

“I teach, like, eight year olds,” Emma says, screwing up her face into a pout.

 

“Trust me,” Regina replies. “Graham’s not too different from an eight-year-old.” As though his name has summoned him, Graham bursts into the room, collapses on Regina’s bed and steals her phone from out of her jacket pocket. “Speak of the devil. Graham, what on earth are you doing here?”

 

He shrugs. “Beating your high score on something?” He scrolls through the apps on her phone. “Jesus, there’s nothing on here. Facebook, Gmail and something called P Tracker? Is that a game?”

 

“Don’t click into that,” Regina says sharply and Emma grins.

 

“Mary Margaret and David are hanging out in my room,” he says, giving her phone back. “I thought I was less likely to catch you two naked than Ruby and Belle.”

 

“And yet you came here anyway,” Emma says, laughing. “What were you thinking, Graham?” Regina glares.

 

“So, tomorrow,” Graham says. “I assume your mother’s coming to the concert?”

 

“Yes,” Regina says. She sent her an email this morning about it though she suspects Mother already knows. She still hasn’t heard back but her mother is notoriously bad at responding to emails. She’ll be there. She would never miss an opportunity to see Regina.

 

“So, I’m playing Boyfriend Graham?” he asks.

 

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Regina says. “I can’t imagine it’ll require much of you. Mostly just don’t flirt too openly with Emma.” Emma squawks indignantly. “Don’t try it, Swan. I’ve seen you two at rehearsals.”

 

“Aw,” Emma says, smiling. “You’ve been watching me.”

 

Shit. Regina feels the blush rise to her cheeks. “Don’t be absurd.”

 

“You’ve told your mother about Thanksgiving, right?” Graham asks.

 

“I explained that as a new recruit, you’ve been scheduled to work Thanksgiving weekend and it’s simply impossible that you make it to Storybrooke. She’s not happy but short of calling your captain there’s nothing she can do.”

 

Graham looks momentarily worried. “She won’t do that, will she?”

 

“No,” Regina says, though it is something that briefly preyed on her thoughts. “She’s intense but she’s not that crazy.”

 

Graham appears unconvinced but wisely changes the subject. “You guys ready for dinner?”

 

Emma grins. “If it’s anywhere as good as breakfast, I am so keen.” Graham, still lying on the bed, holds out his hands and Regina takes them and pulls him up.

 

Emma leaves them to sit with Mary Margaret at dinner and Regina tries not to feel hurt by this. After a quick meal she returns to the room and gets out her course notes for her Political Theory class. She’s halfway through an article about the implications of feminism on policy making when Emma enters. “What are you doing?” Emma asks, looking over Regina’s shoulder, standing close and making Regina all too aware of her physical presence.

 

“Studying,” Regina says, highlighting a sentence.

 

Emma narrows her eyes. “So there’s a pile of alcohol and foosball and people in the common room and you’re studying? For how long?”

 

“Until bed,” Regina says.

 

“No,” Emma says emphatically. “That’s not happening.”

 

“I’m sorry?” Regina asks. She turns another page, though she’s not reading.

 

“You can’t shut fun out,” Emma says. And Regina wants to scream at her because drinking and playing stupid games and talking awkwardly with people she dislikes is not fun. It’s hideous and boring and uncomfortable and no one else is bothered that she won’t be there so why can’t Emma just not care too?

 

“I’m not going.”

 

“Yes, you are,” Emma says.

 

So Regina says something really childish, which she instantly regrets. “Make me.”

 

Emma Swan looks her up and down for a moment. Then, she tucks one hand around Regina’s back and another under her knees and, before Regina can do anything to stop her, she hoists her up, holding her against her chest, and carries her out of the room, slamming the door shut with her boot.

 

Regina’s stunned into silence and inaction for a moment. “Put me down, Emma Swan,” she commands, her voice low and dangerous. Emma keeps walking and Regina can’t help but be impressed that she’s carrying her like she weighs nothing down what feels now like an interminably long corridor. “Let go of me,” she says.

 

“Will you go back to the room?” Emma asks.

 

“No,” Regina says. There’s a part of her that’s enjoying this, enjoying being held, touched by Emma and it worries her because she can’t imagine Emma feels the same way, she just can’t.

 

“Liar,” Emma says, laughing, the thrum of her laugh vibrating from her body to Regina’s. “Come on. You’ll have fun.”

 

Regina’s face feels like it’s on fire and she can feel Emma’s arms start to weaken when they finally reach the common room. Music is playing but the sound of chat and laughter is louder. Emma pushes the doors open with her feet and the whole band stares at them. Regina can see Belle and Ruby fall into hysterics on the couch. Ruby is actually wiping away tears when they approach them. Emma ends up essentially throwing her onto the two girls. “Do _not_ let her get away,” she warns and disappears.

 

“Oh my God,” Belle says, grabbing hold of Regina’s legs as she tries to get up and holding her in place lying across her and Ruby. That’s it, Regina thinks as she tries to pull her skirt down from its current position mid-thigh. My humiliation is complete. “That was beautiful.”

 

“Are you sure you aren’t hitting that?” Ruby asks.

 

“You are both idiots,” Regina says, snarling.

 

“Takes one to know one,” Ruby says in a sing-song. “Look, lover’s back.”

 

“Here,” Emma says, thrusting a bottle at her, a red cup in her own hand. “I figured you’d prefer cider to beer. I can get you something else if you’d prefer.”

 

“This is fine,” Regina says, taking a sip and finding she rather enjoys the sharp, apple taste. “May I sit up now?”

 

“Are you going to run?” Emma asks.

 

Regina rolls her eyes. “I’ll give you thirty minutes to prove this isn’t utterly terrible.”

 

“Great,” Emma says and smiles beatifically and already that kind of makes the evening for Regina. Not that she’d ever tell Emma that.

 

Thirty minutes later, she’s had two ciders and is engaged in a fierce foosball battle with Emma against Graham and Killian. She’s never played before but it’s easy and she loves the speed and the adrenaline and when they win against the two boys ten to eight, she propels herself into Emma’s arms and hugs her, feeling the press of Emma’s body against her own for the second time in less than an hour.

 

“I take it this means you’ll stay,” Emma says, grinning at her.

 

“I suppose I can spare another hour or two,” Regina says, extricating herself from Emma’s arms. “Another drink?”

 

After five drinks, Emma’s disappeared with Mary Margaret and Regina is sitting outside while Graham smokes and Regina bitches to Graham about Emma’s blatant disloyalty. “Mary Margaret Blanchard is the _worst_ ,” she proclaims.

 

“Yes, of course she is,” Graham says soothingly. He takes a drag of the cigarette. “Shall we talk about something else now?”

 

“Emma’s the second worst,” she continues, hearing the slurring in her voice. “She’s got stupid hair and a stupid face and stupid boobs. Ugh.”

 

“You should make a move,” Graham says. Ash falls like dust from the cigarette and he doesn’t appear to notice or care.

 

Regina scowls. “But Emma doesn’t like me,” she says. “Not like that anyway. She likes you, maybe?”

 

Graham laughs. “You are so blind.”

 

“I have twenty-twenty vision actually.”

 

After too many drinks to count, she’s curled up on the couch, head on Emma’s lap. Emma’s hand absently strokes her hair and she’s chatting to Killian, who is the third worst if she’s still ranking people. “Emma,” she whines. “Talk to me instead of guyliner.” Killian huffs and Regina glares at him.

 

Emma rolls her eyes at Killian. “What do you want to talk about, Regina?”

 

“I don’t know,” she says. Everything’s a bit dim and blurry and she’s pretty tired. “I’m sleepy.”

 

“Do you want to go to bed?” Emma asks.

 

Regina sits up, staring at Emma in outrage. “We haven’t even been on a date yet,” she hisses.

 

Emma laughs. “Oh honey. You are so wasted. Come with me.”

 

Too tired to do anything but comply, Regina lets herself be dragged back to room twelve. She kicks off her shoes and pulls off her shirt. She notices Emma’s cheeks flush pink and her eyes darken, before she turns away, fiddling with something in her bag. Regina pulls on her pyjama shirt, relishing the feel of the satin against her bare skin, and scrambles into bed. “G’night, Emma,” she murmurs.

 

Emma turns back to her and straightens the covers on the bed. Regina reaches out a hand, placing it on the back of Emma’s head, and pulls her close, stretching her own head up. She places a brief kiss on Emma’s lips, feels this tingle of electricity, and falls back on the pillow. “There,” she says. “Made a move.”

 

The last thing she remembers is Emma placing a soft kiss to her forehead and turning out the light.


	8. Tenuto

 

Emma wakes early as usual to the sight of Regina Mills sprawled half in, half out of her own bed, one of her legs dangling towards the floor. She’s snoring gently and has eyeliner and mascara smeared underneath the one eye Emma can see. It’s kind of adorable. Emma notes that there is a half full water bottle beside Regina’s bed and rummages in her bag for an aspirin.

 

She looks at her phone. 6.20. Judging by Regina’s reaction yesterday, she’s not going to appreciate ‘Reveille’ this morning. Emma knows Gold has Doc doing wake up this morning and she also knows as his section leader that Doc has two settings; loud and ear-piercing. “Hey,” she murmurs, shaking Regina’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

 

Regina grumbles and turns on to her back, stretching her arms above her head and knocking the covers off herself in the process, her pyjama shirt riding up to just below her breasts. Emma freezes momentarily, struck by the satiny curve of her chest barely visible at the edge of the fabric. “Regina,” she says, more loudly this time, trying to ignore the heat rising to her cheeks.

 

“What?” Regina groans, eyes screwed tightly shut.

 

“You need to wake up,” Emma says.

 

Regina sits bolt upright, sways slightly and clutches her head. “Did I miss the bugle?” she says, voice husky from sleep.

 

“No, it’s early,” Emma says. “I just thought you might like a gentler wake up than Doc playing.”

 

“Ungh.” The face Regina pulls is so deeply full of self-loathing, scrunching her nose and mouth. Emma finds it adorable, which is a word she is just now realising she has used to describe Regina Mills too often this morning to be entirely sane.

 

“There’s water and aspirin and when you’re dressed, we’ll go and get coffee and something greasy into you.” Regina likes her. At least, she thinks that’s what the whole ‘made a move’ business was about yesterday. She hopes so.

 

“I don’t like this,” Regina says, grumbling as she gets out of bed. “It’s your fault.”

 

“Yes,” Emma says. “I _forced_ you to drink that much cider.” Does Regina remember what happened last night? Emma can’t get a read on her.

 

Regina grabs her towel and stumbles out of the room. Emma takes the time to change. They’re going straight from rehearsal to Storybrooke for the concert and Gold has told them to wear their performance clothes. Emma has one decent pair of black slacks, which she pulls on, and pairs it with a black turtleneck and her boots. She has time so brushes her hair and pulls it back into a ponytail.

 

Regina returns, hair damp and face scrubbed clean. She’s in a state. “Why did I forget my hairdryer?” she asks.

 

“Because we’re at a camp, not a five star hotel,” Emma says.

 

“I have to see my mother,” she snaps, peering into a compact to do her make up. Emma was right in thinking Regina’s performance clothes would be fancy. She’s dressed in a black skirt, stockings and a sheer black blouse over a camisole, all of which look expensive and designer.

 

“You look beautiful,” Emma says softly.

 

Regina stares at her for an instant, mascara brush halfway to her eye. Emma knows, she just knows, that Regina is thinking about last night. “Thank you,” she eventually says. “That’s sweet of you, if untrue.”

 

“Stop fishing,” Emma says and the moment is gone. “Come and get breakfast.”

 

Regina sniffs at the bacon and hash browns Emma piles on her plate but when they sit and she’s skulled a cup of coffee with more sugar and creamer than Emma imagined was possible to put in a coffee cup, she takes a tentative bite of one of the hash browns and moans.

 

“Good, huh?” Emma says. “It’s the best hangover cure.”

 

Regina’s too busy eating to answer but by the time they move to rehearsals she’s regained some natural colour in her cheeks. Emma warms up and then they start with the ‘Carmen’ suite, which Emma is pretty sure is Gold’s punishment to them all for drinking because it’s so freaking loud.

 

Emma’s distracted by Regina for most of the first run through but, like yesterday, Regina doesn’t look her way. Belle catches Emma’s eye a couple of times and she smiles knowingly. “Rubbish,” Gold says. “Total crap. Again.”

 

Emma flexes her fingers, which feel clumsy and weak, and they go again. This time Emma focuses fully on the music. She will not let an embarrassing crush get in the way of killing it musically.

 

Gold is relentless all morning and they barely have time to return to their rooms before heading for the bus. Emma grabs her bag and waits for Regina, who is changing her shoes from ballet flats to high heeled pumps. “Can you walk in those?” Emma asks. Regina just rolls her eyes and strides out of the room, so quickly that Emma has to jog to catch up.

 

She sits beside her on the bus, which Emma counts as a victory. “I’m going to call Henry,” Emma says. “That okay?”

 

Regina just curls up against her shoulder. Emma has to try very hard not to put an arm around her and dials Ari’s number instead. “Hey,” she says. “How’s it going?”

 

“Great,” Ari says. “Henry woke up last night a bit upset but he’s all good now. We’re heading to the zoo soon and then getting dinner. You might be home before us. Henry, it’s your mom!” There’s a loud thump and shuffling footsteps.

 

“Mama!” Henry says. “I drew you a picture.”

 

“I can’t wait to see it,” she says. She feels this uncomfortable lump in her throat. Regina shifts on her shoulder as the bus moves and she can smell her perfume, some sort of apple blossom smell. “I’m going to play in a concert now.”

 

“I can come?” Henry asks.

 

“It’s a bit far, kid,” Emma says. She used to be in a jazz quartet that broke up when the saxophonist and trombonist broke up because the trombonist was cheating with the bass player. If they did a lunchtime concert, Mary Margaret would bring Henry along to watch. He’d dance along to whatever they were playing. “We have a Christmas concert soon and that’s in Boston so you can come to that.”

 

“Okay,” Henry says. “Mama, we’re going to the zoo.” And he hangs up.

 

“Got to work on the little guy’s phone etiquette,” Emma says.

 

“He was very polite to me yesterday,” Regina says. Her eyes are still closed and Emma stares at the perfectly arched eyebrows, the darker skin of her eyelids and the ludicrously long lashes.

 

“Well, he just hung up on me,” Emma says. “Clearly my son just likes you more.” Regina tries, and fails, not to appear smug. “So how far away is Storybrooke?” Mary Margaret had told her a bit about the town; unlike Regina, she was excited to return to her hometown for the concert.

 

“Not far,” Regina says. “Just down the coast a bit.”

 

“Is it a nice town?”

 

For a moment Emma thinks Regina isn’t going to answer. “I love it,” she says. “I don’t like a lot of the people but then I don’t like most of the people in Boston either. It’s mostly just ports and a diner. No Starbucks, no fast food restaurants, no decent clothing stores. Time sort of… stands still there.”

 

“So you grew up there?”

 

“Born and raised,” Regina says.

 

“I was actually born around here,” Emma says. “At least, I think so.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, I was left on the side of the road somewhere outside of Brunswick,” she says. “I’m an orphan.” She’s found that being matter-of-fact about it helps. She’s way past feeling cut up about the fact that her parents abandoned her on the interstate.

 

“Is that why you kept Henry?” Regina asks.

 

“What?”

 

“You know, not leaving a child like you were left,” Regina says. She’s right. She’d booked the appointment for an abortion, had been this close to going through with it, but just couldn’t do it. She’d used Neal’s money as bond on a cheap apartment and to buy baby stuff instead.

 

They’re on an empty stretch of road. Emma turns away from Regina and presses her head against the glass, looking out the windows at the empty fields. A sign ahead signals ‘Welcome to Storybrooke’. “Welcome home,” Emma says.

 

“I guess so,” Regina says. She straightens up and pulls out her compact, fixes her hair. It’s frizzing slightly from the damp and the lack of a hair dryer. It’s kind of cute, though Regina huffs at her reflection.

 

The bus pulls into the township and parks outside the town hall, an old white wooden building. “Ready?” Emma asks.

 

“No,” Regina replies, though she stands and straightens her clothing. “See you later.” And she’s pushing up to the front of the bus where Graham’s sitting. Emma lets out a sigh, watching her touch his shoulder, envious of the easy familiarity between them. She grabs her music and heads off the bus, catching up with Mary Margaret.

 

“Is your dad here yet?” Emma’s never met Leo Blanchard but Mary Margaret loves her dad. Emma’s always been slightly jealous of the close relationship they have.

 

“I’ll see Dad after,” she says. “There’s always time at the end for schmoozing.” David wraps an arm around each of their shoulders.

 

“How are we feeling?” he says. “You didn’t drink much last night, Em.”

 

“No,” she says. “One does not need alcohol to have a good time, Mr Nolan.”

 

In response, David pulls her ponytail. Mary Margaret’s the one who says, “She was looking out for Regina.”

 

“Does someone have a crush on the Evil Queen?” David asks.

 

“We’re friends,” Emma says sharply. “We should get inside.”

 

Gold’s posted the schedule up and Emma spends the next few minutes trying to sort her music into performance order. She spends the next ten warming up. Her fingers feel cold and stiff. It’s ridiculous to be nervous. It’s an amateur group playing to a small town crowd. She’s had considerably tougher gigs.

 

She chances a glance at Regina who is fiddling with the reed of her clarinet. Gold calls out over the crew. “Quiet!” The room goes silent. “We will file out through these doors. The room is set up.”

 

Emma grabs her folder of music and, holding her trumpet in the other hand, shuffles across to Regina. “Good luck,” she whispers, nudging her with her elbow and she’s not really talking about the performance.

 

Regina smiles. “Thank you, Emma.”

 

They leave together, splitting up when they reach the stage, Emma moving to sit with the trumpets on a raised platform at the back of the horseshoe. Regina sits at the front on the left. Her posture is stiff and she’s gone pale, the fingers on one hand tapping against her thigh. It’s a full crowd. On one side is a bunch of women in identical clothing who Emma thinks are nuns even though her only knowledge of nuns is from frequent watching of ‘The Sound of Music’ and there’s not a habit to be seen. Front and centre is a woman in a dark pant suit, hair perfectly coiffed and lipstick blood red. She’s smiling but her eyes are cold. There’s something in the sweep of her hair and the shape of eyes and mouth that tells Emma this is Regina’s mother.

 

Gold points to Archie, who plays a tuning note, and Emma listens to her pitch, fiddling with the slide until it’s just right.

 

Gold pulls them straight into ‘Galop’, setting the pace for the afternoon. From there they move into ‘Malagueña’ and then ‘Cantina Band’. All quick, fun numbers. Emma has adrenaline pumping through her veins when they slow down and play ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’.

 

“Now,” Gold says, turning to the audience briefly. “’Rhapsody in Blue’, with Regina Mills on the clarinet.”

 

Regina stands, clenching and releasing a fist in her left hand. Ashley grabs the spare music stand and scurries over to a spot near Gold’s stand with it so he can still conduct her. Gold’s watching her. She takes two deep breaths, back muscles clenching and loosening, and begins.

 

She’s been practising. The glissando is as perfect as ever, but her high notes are softer and the music glides like silk. Emma almost doesn’t want the rest of the orchestra to join in. At the end, Emma looks at Regina, who has turned to acknowledge her accompaniment. Her cheeks are flushed pink and she’s smiling, the sort of smile Emma’s only seen her give Henry. The woman that Emma thinks is Regina’s mother is smiling again, clapping politely.

The concert continues. Ruby does the whole ‘make love to the saxophone’ thing in ‘Chicago’ again but she sounds fantastic, dirty and rough and jazzy. Emma nails the ‘Carmen’ solos. She stands for them this time, shoulders back, legs apart, feeling every bit the triumphant toreador.

 

All too soon it’s over and they rush backstage to pack up. Mary Margaret grabs Emma. “I want you to meet my dad,” she says. Emma is introduced to an older gentleman, with a greying beard and Mary Margaret’s smile.

 

“I’ve heard so much about you,” he says, holding out his hand for Emma to shake.

 

She takes it. “Likewise, Dr Blanchard.” Emma looks across at Mary Margaret, wondering what she’s told her father about Emma, but Mary Margaret’s looking up at her father and smiling. She’s really close with her father; she’s told Emma before that he’s the only family she’s had since her mother died when she was a child. Behind Mary Margaret, Regina stands with Graham, his arm draped around her tense shoulders, talking with the woman Emma assumed (correctly, she now realises) was Regina’s mother. Emma feels a stab of jealousy at the positioning of Graham’s arm.

 

“Call me Leo,” he says. “You’re an excellent trumpet player.”

 

“Thank you,” Emma says, contemplating going over to Regina. Ultimately, she decides not to, shifting so that she’s facing away from the temptation that Regina places.

 

The conversation continues. Leo tells Emma about his own time in the state philharmonic (he was a violinist), asks genuinely interested questions about Henry and ribs Mary Margaret about David (“and when will I be a grandpa?”). Emma is listening in fascination to the story of how he wooed his wife, Eva, who played the flute in the same orchestra, when they are interrupted.

 

“Leopold Blanchard.” It’s Regina’s mother. “As I live and breathe.”

 

“Cora,” Leo says, hugging the woman and kissing her on one cheek. “How are you, old girl?” Cora Mills is a tall woman, and thin. She smiles without revealing her teeth and there is no warmth in her dark eyes. Regina remains across the other side of the room with Graham, now talking to a nun. “You remember my daughter, Mary Margaret?”

 

Cora shakes Mary Margaret’s hand. Emma’s watching her closely and notices her avoiding eye contact with Cora, pulling her hand swiftly away and her lips pinching into a tight line. “Excuse me,” she says. “I’m going to go and find David. He’ll want to see you, Dad.”

 

“Lovely to see you again, dear,” Cora says, touching Mary Margaret’s arm. Mary Margaret nods and abandons Emma.

 

“Cora, this is Emma Swan,” Leo says, turning to Emma.

 

Emma holds out a hand and Cora takes it. Her palms are cool and dry; her nails perfectly manicured and painted the same red as her lipstick. Up close, Emma can see dark circles under the woman’s eyes, hidden by concealer, and her skin seems too pale. Emma can’t shake the feeling that there’s something wrong. Probably it’s her own unease around the woman. “Hey,” Emma says, reclaiming her hand and flexing it. “You must be really proud of Regina.”

 

“Of course,” Cora says. Her voice is soft and smooth, higher than Regina’s own voice. “What do you do for a living, Ms Swan?”

 

“I work in a bakery,” Emma says. “Also, I teach trumpet and do accounts for a small business.” She decides Cora Mills does not need to know exactly what type of business it is.

 

“My, you must be busy.” Again the shark-like smile that stops short at her eyes.

 

“Very,” Emma says. “But needs must.”

 

“Indeed.” Cora turns from her to Leo. “Now, Leo, tell me, how is the practice?”

 

Emma has been dismissed, judged by Cora Mills and found wanting. She grabs her trumpet and goes out to the bus, finds a seat. Regina sits with Graham on the way back to Boston and Emma’s left alone with her thoughts. She was never going to like Cora Mills, not with the fear she clearly strikes into Regina, the fact that Regina has to actively closet herself.

 

Having met her, the dislike only grows.

 

Finally, they’re back in Boston, the sky grey and threatening rain. They pile into Regina’s car. Graham is dropped off first and Belle gets out with Ruby at her apartment – the two of them giggling. Emma moves into the front seat and taps a pattern against her thigh with her fingers, unaccountably nervous. When Regina pulls up outside Emma’s apartment, she stays in place rather than leaping out of the car even though her every instinct is telling her to run.

 

“Should we talk?” she asks. “About what happened last night.”

 

Regina flushes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She stares out the window.

 

“Liar,” Emma says. “You were drunk but you weren’t that drunk.”

 

“Fine,” Regina says, turning to her. “I apologise for the impropriety.”

 

Emma laughs. “You are so weird.” She slides out of the car and Regina pops the boot. After grabbing her stuff, she moves to the driver’s side window and raps against it. Regina winds the window down and, dumping her stuff on the footpath, Emma leans in and kisses Regina, letting her left hand stroke Regina’s cheek, pulling her closer. Regina’s lips are soft and she tastes of peppermint. She freezes when Emma’s lips touch hers and Emma panics, pulling back, worried that she’s totally misinterpreted everything, before Regina lets out a soft sigh and sinks into the chaste kiss.

 

“Come to dinner with me?” Emma asks.

 

“As in a date?” Regina asks, eyes darting and cheeks rosy.

 

“If you’d like,” Emma says. “Friday night? Seven o’clock?”

 

Regina’s lips curve into a smile, her teeth showing. “I suppose I can make time.”

 

“Kill me with your enthusiasm, why don’t you?”

 

“Go before I change my mind, Ms Swan,” Regina warns and Emma grins, grabbing her trumpet and duffle bag and running up the steps to her apartment and Henry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up: seeing Cora from Regina's perspective and an awful awful date.


	9. Stacatto

 

Regina wakes later than usual on Monday morning. She doesn’t have class until twelve and she’s allowing herself this one luxury, so necessary after her weekend. She stretches, relishing the light filtering through the curtains and the soft fabric of her cotton sheets against her skin.

 

It’s nine o’clock though and, sighing, she rolls out of bed, pulling on her robe over pyjamas and slipping her feet into slippers. Belle’s at the kitchen table, toast and coffee in front of her and reading a novel. Regina raises an eyebrow. “When did you get home?”

 

Belle smiles, eyes crinkling. “About an hour ago. Ruby had an early class.”

 

“I’m happy for you,” Regina says. It comes out stiff because she’s not good at the whole emotional thing but she’s pretty sure Belle understands that she means it. She moves to the kitchen alcove, pours herself a coffee and makes herself a bowl of muesli and yoghurt.

 

“Thanks,” Belle says, that same soft, soppy smile playing on her lips. “How are you doing?”

 

“I’m good,” Regina says. “Despite my mother.”

 

She really is. Being back in Storybrooke had been gruelling. Cora hadn’t seemed like herself; she hadn’t commented on the disaster that was Regina’s hair, for a start, and when Graham had apologised for refusing the Thanksgiving invitation, she’d merely responded, “that’s quite all right, dear.”

 

Her mother had spent some time talking with Dr Blanchard, Emma standing with him for at least part of that time. Regina’s stomach had twisted itself into knots but her mother, who had always seemed so prescient, hadn’t said anything about Emma to Regina. However, later, she had pulled Regina away from Mother Superior (a welcome relief because she was quizzing Regina about the church she attended in Boston and Regina could only talk about her experiences at the church she’d attended for show once for so long).

 

“The son of a business acquaintance of mine is going to be moving to Boston in December,” she’d said. “I’ve told him you’ll show him around, make him feel welcome, introduce him to the right people.”

 

“I don’t think Graham would like that,” Regina had stated blandly, though her heart pounded. _So it begins_.

 

“Nonsense,” Mother had said. “Graham won’t mind at all, which should really worry you, dear.” She had raised an eyebrow archly.

 

Fortunately, Graham had come for her at that point. “The bus is ready to leave,” he’d said, wrapping an arm around her waist. “See you later, Mrs Mills.”

 

“Goodbye, dear,” Mother had said, before kissing Graham on the cheek and then pulling Regina in for a hug. She’d lost weight that she couldn’t afford to lose in the first place and her jutting bones had dug into Regina’s skin. “His name is Rob. He has your number,” she’d hissed into Regina’s ear.

 

Belle looks at her, doubt laced into her features. “What did she do?”

 

“Graham is starting to become unsuitable,” Regina says. “I’m being set up after Thanksgiving.”

 

“So I should be prepared with the Taylor Swift and awful roommate behaviour?”

 

Regina takes a sip of her coffee. “I’d like to think I’m better at handling people now than I was at eighteen.”

 

Belle snorts. “Yeah. Right.” She stuffs the last bit of toast into her mouth and, while she’s chewing, brushes fingers through her hair before plaiting it into a French braid. Regina’s so used to Belle she often forgets how pretty she is, all pale skin and thick hair and full, red lips. “I’m heading off to class. You home tonight?”

 

“Of course,” Regina says. “I’ll cook. I think I’ve got some chicken if you’re okay with stir fry.”

 

“Sweet,” Belle says, pulling a loose woollen cardigan over her dress. “Hey, I meant to ask, it wasn’t so bad rooming with Emma this weekend, right?”

 

Not so bad at all, Regina thinks, smiling to herself. “It was fine,” she says.

 

“Good,” Belle says, swinging her leather satchel over her shoulder. “We didn’t want to push anything but I really did think there was something there.”

 

Regina touches her lips. “I think there might be,” she says, unable to help the smile now blossoming across her face.

 

Belle squeals and Regina pulls a face, startled at the sound. “Oh my God, tell me everything.”

 

“Don’t you have a class?” Regina asks, taking a spoonful of muesli and yoghurt and picking up her phone to check her emails.

 

“Screw Literary Criticism,” Belle says, settling back in at the table and batting Regina’s phone out of her hand. “I want gossip.”

 

So Regina tells her about her and Emma telling each other truths – though she doesn’t, of course, go into specifics. She tells her about the drunken kiss. She tells her about the tiny gestures – getting Regina breakfast, letting her rest her head on her shoulder on the bus, making her enjoy the party – that make Regina feel warm thinking about them. “Then she kissed me when I dropped her off and asked me out.”

 

Belle sighs. “This is so great.” Regina’s inclined to agree.

 

But as the days of the week fall away, so too does Regina’s complacency. What was she thinking accepting Emma Swan’s invitation? She complains to Graham about it over the phone and he is singularly unhelpful. “You’ve been on a date before,” he says. “This isn’t breaking new ground.”

 

She has been on dates before, too many to count. It doesn’t help any.

 

She cancels dinner with Emma and Henry before band on Wednesday, claiming too much coursework to catch up on, and if Emma doesn’t buy her excuse, she at least doesn’t question it. Emma still picks her up for band, where they get given a sheath of Christmas music by Gold, who looks like he’s swallowed acid as he hands it out.

 

“Please just learn this,” he says, “so we can spend as little time as possible rehearsing it.”

 

On the drive home, the roads wet and shiny with rain, Emma says, “Henry misses you.”

 

“I miss him too,” Regina says, finding that she’s telling the truth. The small boy has wormed his way swiftly into her heart and it alarms her as much as it delights her.

 

“You could always come and visit him before dinner on Friday,” Emma suggests.

 

“Who’s looking after him?”

 

“Mary Margaret and David are coming over to babysit.”

 

“They know about… whatever this is?” She’d been about to say ‘us’ but there’s something too intimate about that.

 

“Mary Margaret’s my best friend,” Emma says. “She’ll be discreet.” Regina snorts. Not her perception of the woman. All it would take is Mary Margaret mentioning it to her father for her mother to find out and the whole heterosexual façade Regina has created would unravel again. Emma looks over at her briefly. “Someday one of you will tell me what happened there.”

 

“Not a chance,” Regina says. The car pulls up outside her apartment block. “I’d rather not be in close quarters with the charming couple if I can help it. But perhaps I could take Henry to the park on Saturday?” She can hear the hesitation in her own voice. Is she overstepping her bounds?

 

But Emma smiles. “I work Saturday afternoon. Normally he goes to Ari’s but if you wanted to take him for the afternoon…”

 

“Of course,” Regina says, perhaps too quickly. “I would love to.”

 

“Henry’ll be excited,” Emma says. “He gets a date of his own now.” She pulls up outside Regina’s building.

 

“Yes, well,” Regina says, fumbling for her clarinet.

 

“You’re not wimping out?” Emma asks.

 

In the dark of the car, Regina is able to admit to herself that she would hate that. “Is it such a terrifying experience going for dinner with you, Emma?” she says and slips out of the car, practically _feeling_ Emma’s grin.

 

Two days later, she’s regretting the smart-ass comment as she is getting very close to her first panic attack since high school. Belle’s sitting in an arm chair, flicking through a magazine, with Ruby draped across her lap, and they keep laughing as Regina enters and leaves the room, asking for opinions and then disregarding them when they’re offered.

 

“I don’t even know where we’re going,” Regina says, exasperated as Belle rejects her first three dresses unilaterally. “For all I know she’ll take me to McDonalds.”

 

“Well, in that case, jeans and a hoodie,” Belle says. Regina glares at her. “Relax, Emma knows you well enough to know that you’re a) a snob and b) so tightly wound you’re one word away from snapping. She’ll take you somewhere classy.”

 

Regina frowns. “What do you suggest?”

 

“Stop picking out black dresses,” Ruby says.

 

“Black is flattering,” Regina says.

 

“Yeah, and it makes you look like an Italian widow, which is great when you’re trying to intimidate the men your mother picks but less great for someone you actually like,” Belle says. “You can borrow something of mine.” She pushes Ruby off her gently and runs to her room, returning with what appears to be a pile of blue lace. She shoves it at Regina, who balks. “Just try it,” Belle says.

 

Regina removes herself and swaps the conservative black linen for Belle’s dress. It’s dark blue lace over the top of a skimpy chemise, the skirt flared and the waist fitted. She leaves the room reluctantly and Ruby wolf whistles. “You’re so wearing that, Mills,” she says.

 

“I’m not sure,” Regina says because it shows a fair amount more of her thighs than she’s generally comfortable revealing, but Belle gives her that look, like she will actually kill her if she’s not careful, and since that almost never happens she resigns herself to wearing Belle’s dress. At least it’s one of the few expensive items of clothing Belle owns.

 

“Fine,” she huffs and returns to the bathroom to do her hair and make-up. While she’s staring at her face in the mirror, wondering what the hell she’s doing, she hears the buzzer. Emma’s early. She nearly stabs herself in the eye with her mascara brush.

 

Emma’s face when she sees her is priceless. “Wow.” She’s dressed nicely herself, black trousers and a loose red shirt, which shows a tantalising amount of cleavage and kindles a fire in the pit of Regina’s belly. She’s also wearing high heels, which Regina does not appreciate quite so much. She’s a couple of inches shorter and relies of Emma wearing flats to give her the upper hand so to speak.

 

“I take it you like the dress?” Regina asks and Emma nods. “You look very nice as well,” she adds, eyes drawn again to the V of her shirt, and the soft, pale skin that it’s doing an inadequate job of hiding.

 

Belle and Ruby are watching avidly. Regina’s surprised they don’t have popcorn. “I expect you home by eleven,” Belle says.

 

“Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do,” Ruby adds, cackling.

 

Regina raises an eyebrow. “Goodbye, _Moms_ ,” she says and follows Emma outside.

 

They end up at this fashionable Italian restaurant on North Square that one of her mother’s set-ups took her to a few years ago. Even though Emma’s made a reservation, they spend a considerable amount of time at the bar waiting for their table. It’s too loud for them to talk and so Regina spends the time nursing a glass of merlot and watching Emma, who is becoming increasingly agitated as the wait lengthens, tapping her fingers on the bar and mouth twisting into a grimace.

 

They’re finally seated and, while it’s still loud, it’s marginally more bearable. The tables are too close together and Regina and Emma are squeezed in barely two feet from a couple feeling each other up under the table. The backs of Regina’s thighs are sticking to the chair because when seated the dress barely covers her backside. It’s an uncomfortable feeling and one she doesn’t wish to get used to. Sophisticated women don’t wear short skirts, her mother has always said.

 

“So,” Emma says, raising her eyebrows at the table next to them and pulling a face.

 

And it happens. Regina feels the frozen mask appear across her face. It’s a defence mechanism, one that she’s used on every date she’s ever been on. Appear cold, frigid, unattainable, and you put them off. She stares intently at the menu, willing herself to relax. “How was your day?” she asks and she couldn’t sound more disinterested if she’d tried.

 

“Good,” Emma says. “I’ve been teaching all afternoon and I’m so ready to never hear eight year olds playing the trumpet ever again. You?”

 

“Fine,” Regina says. She racks her brains, desperately seeking something to say, something that happened that day but she draws a complete blank. They both lapse into silence, Emma frowning and twisting her mouth in the way Regina’s come to realise she does when she’s hurt.

 

It’s a welcome relief when the waitress appears. “What can I get you guys?”

 

“I’ll have the fettuccine,” Emma says. “Just water to drink, thanks.”

 

“The gnocchi,” Regina says.

 

“Anything to drink?”

 

“Yes, another glass of the merlot,” she says, handing over her menu. Perhaps alcohol will help. It did at the band retreat.

 

Silence reigns again. Emma taps a tune out on the table. Regina feels paralysed, sculls the last of her wine and looks over at the bar, hoping desperately for the next one to arrive.

 

“Henry’s excited about the park,” Emma says. She has to repeat herself twice because the place has gotten louder again. The man next to them is kissing his girlfriend’s hand in a way that goes beyond sweet and well into nauseating territory. Emma shoots her a disgusted commiserating look, which Regina wishes she could reciprocate instead of pulling the aloof sneer that’s been present on her face since they were seated.

 

“I’m glad,” Regina says. “How is he?”

 

“He’s great,” Emma says and there’s ten minutes where Regina doesn’t feel excruciatingly uncomfortable because Emma can talk about Henry until the proverbial cows come home. Eventually, though, she runs out of things to say – or perhaps she becomes aware that Regina has added nothing to the conversation for ten minutes beyond the occasional nod or polite noise of encouragement.

 

Their food arrives and both eat quickly. Emma spills sauce down her shirt and even dabbing at it with her napkin doesn’t make it disappear. Regina orders a third glass of wine and drinks it quickly. “How was your meal?” Regina asks.

 

“Good,” Emma says. “I’m not a big truffle fan though.”

 

“It’s an acquired taste,” Regina says and then winces because, could she sound like more of a snob?

 

Emma’s fidgeting. The waitress comes around with the desert menus and they both decline. “You can if you want,” Regina says. “Their tiramisu is divine.”

 

“You’ve been here before?” Emma asks.

 

“Yes,” Regina says. “A date in my freshman year.” He’d been at law school, had ordered for Regina and attempted to ply her with alcohol. He’d been persistent; one of the ones Belle had warded off at her dorm. She can’t even remember his name, but she remembers his wet lips on hers.

 

“I’m pretty full,” Emma says. “Can we have the bill?”

 

Regina doesn’t miss the sympathetic look the waitress shoots at Emma when she returns with the bill. Regina grabs her wallet from her handbag. “I asked you out. I can pay,” Emma says.

 

“No,” Regina says. “I’d like to pay my way.” Ceding even that much control is unthinkable, besides which she knows this is an expensive restaurant and Emma shouldn’t have to scrimp to pay for a meal when Regina’s been so awful all evening.

 

“Whatever,” Emma says and she places some notes in the leather bill folder, before shoving it over to Regina, who adds the rest. “Shall we go?”

 

“Great,” Regina says and she follows Emma out of the restaurant, weaving between tables and people. Outside, she breathes in great gulps of cold air, wrapping her coat tight around herself. Emma’s striding ahead to where she parked her car and Regina runs – not an easy task as her heels are pinching – to catch up.

 

The car ride home is silent. Emma’s hands grip the steering wheel tightly and Regina wants to say something, anything, to breach the silence but she can’t. Her tongue is leaden, her mouth dry.

 

“Thank you,” she says, opening the door. “Tell Henry I’ll see him tomorrow at two.”

 

“Goodbye, Regina,” Emma says and there’s a certain finality in her tone. Then her hideous yellow bug is speeding off down the road.

 

Regina manages to hold in her tears until she reaches the safety of the elevator. She allows herself the one minute the elevator takes to reach her floor to sob. At her door, she dabs under her eyes with a Kleenex before opening it. Ruby and Belle are sitting on cushions on the floor, the laptop in front of them playing ‘Game of Thrones’. Belle looks at her phone. “It’s barely gone nine,” she says.

 

“It was a disaster,” Regina says, slumping into a chair and kicking off her shoes.

 

“But you guys have been getting on so well,” Belle says.

 

“Apparently not for dating,” Regina says. She wants to tell Belle that it’s all her fault, that she froze up, panicked and played the ice queen, but she doesn’t want Ruby to know. “Do you guys mind if I practise the clarinet?”

 

Belle shoots Ruby a look. “Sure. We can go into my room if it’s loud,” she says. “You sure you’re okay?”

 

“Fine,” Regina says. She goes into her room, pulls off Belle’s dress, draping it over her desk chair, and pulls on her pyjamas. Her clarinet is set up on a stand and, after attaching a reed, she plays a series of scales, loud and violent, fingers crashing against the keys clumsily.

 

You can’t cry and play the clarinet at the same time, Regina has learned, so she’ll play as long and as loudly as she can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response continues to be amazing to this, so thank you so much and keep it coming!


	10. Legato

Emma barely restrains herself from slamming the door to her apartment and it’s only the thought of Henry waking up that stops her. Mary Margaret and David are cuddled up on the couch, watching television and it’s unbearably cute.

 

“You’re back early,” David says, muting the television.

 

“Ugh,” Emma says, kicking off her shoes and removing her jacket. “She’s so awful.”

 

“What happened?” Mary Margaret asks, scooting over on the couch so there’s room for Emma as well. Emma sits, curling her legs under her and resting her head against the back of the sofa, momentarily closing her eyes and trying to let the whole awful date wash away.

 

“It was just so… awkward.” She fiddles with top button on her shirt, which she’ll need to get into the wash if she doesn’t want the cream stain to stick. She thinks back to Regina, beautiful in the short dress, legs long and toned and tanned. She’d had ideas about how the date would go. She’d hoped they would talk and laugh all evening at a romantic restaurant. She’d hoped that it’d be her and Regina curled up on the couch at the end of the evening, not Mary Margaret and David. She’d hoped it’d be her ghosting her hand up Regina’s legs, biting at her desirable bottom lip, weaving her fingers through her short dark hair.

 

“I’m sorry, honey,” Mary Margaret says. “Do you want company?”

 

“Not really,” she says, sighing. “No offence.”

 

“None taken,” David says, smiling and standing. “Buck up, kiddo.”

 

“Thanks so much for looking after Henry,” Emma says, ignoring the weirdly fatherly comment. “He okay?”

 

“Great,” David says. Mary Margaret’s still seated, rubbing her arm with her hand. It’s kind of comforting, she supposes. “We’ll see you later, okay?”

 

“Yes,” Mary Margaret says. “Both of you come over for dinner next week.”

 

“Sounds great,” Emma says. “I’ll text you.” And finally they’re gone. She finds a half empty bottle of wine in the fridge, pours a glass and sculls it, the sour taste coating her tongue and throat. She pours another and then feels the tears come. She bends over the kitchen bench, the old-fashioned marbled pattern blurring in front of her eyes. “Fuck,” she mutters.

 

At some point, she makes it into an old tee-shirt and under her duvet. She’s woken at six by Henry clambering on top of her, foot stomping on her bladder. “Mama, wake up,” he says. She screws her eyes shut and he climbs under the covers with her, cuddling up against her. “Mama?”

 

Emma opens one eye and finds him about an inch away from her face because her child has no sense of personal space. She grabs him, peppering his face with kisses and tickling him until he squeals. “Hey, buddy.”

 

“Breakfast,” Henry says, pulling her hand imperiously.

 

She swings out of bed and pulls sweatpants on. “What do you want for breakfast?”

 

“Pancakes, please,” Henry says.

 

“Sounds good,” Emma says. He remembered to say ‘please’ so he’s clearly not super secure in the belief that she’ll actually make him pancakes. “Can you help me by setting the table?”

 

Henry potters off to the kitchen in his pyjamas and Emma follows him. While he grabs the placemats and napkins from the bottom drawer, she sets about mixing flour, eggs and milk and melting a dab of butter in the frying pan. “Blueberries or chocolate chips?” she asks, already knowing the answer. Henry just looks at her like she’s a total idiot. “Chocolate chips then.”

 

She plates the pancakes, cutting his up and adding a sliced banana to at least pretend it’s healthy, and gives Henry his plate to carry to the table. “Yum,” he says, taking a big bite of one and leaving syrup around his mouth.

 

“They’re pretty good, eh?” she says, sipping on a mug of coffee. It feels too early to eat, though she’s picking at the edge of one of her pancakes.

 

Mid-bite, Henry sits upright and his eyes widen. “Regina today!” he says.

 

Emma’s smile freezes. “Pretty exciting, kid,” she says, wishing she could inject more enthusiasm into her voice.

 

Henry spends the rest of the morning drawing and playing Lego and Emma gets some solid trumpet practice in, under the guise of performing for him. At twelve thirty, she starts to panic about seeing Regina and calls Ari. “Can he hang out with you guys? Someone’s coming to get him at two.”

 

Henry’s wearing his favourite tee-shirt and hasn’t resisted Emma’s attempts to brush his hair for the first time in several months. “Regina will pick you up from Ari’s,” she says. “I have to go to work.” She sends Regina a text ( _Henry at apartment 23)_ and then goes and sits on a park bench for an hour, a book open on her lap and stewing in guilt and embarrassment.

 

Leroy spends most of the afternoon exasperated with her. “What is with you today, Swan?” he asks after she snaps at a customer who’s trying it on. There’s a certain irony in the grumpiest man Emma’s ever met telling her off for her attitude.

 

“Sorry,” she says. “I’ll be better.”

 

“I’m putting you on the coffee machine,” he says. “Keep away from the paying customers.”

 

It’s a remarkably fine day for mid-November and Emma’s kept busy making take away coffees, able to vent some of her frustration on the perpetually temperamental machine, bashing her hand against its side when it decides that actually steaming milk is totally optional for a latte.

 

She lingers at work after closing for the first time ever, taking her time cashing up, sweeping the shop, wiping down the rickety metal tables even though it’s already been done. It’s when Leroy sees her eying up a large bag of flour that he snaps. “Swan, so help me, if you spill that, I will end you. Go home.”

 

Emma shrugs. “Sorry,” she says, grabs her bag and jacket and leaves. She walks home, dragging her feet, the air crisp and the sky starting to go grey. Regina probably dropped Henry back at Ari’s, if she even showed up at all. She’ll be fine. She doesn’t need to worry about who’s waiting for her at home, the ensuing awkwardness.

 

She’d had such high hopes for Friday. Perhaps that was the problem. Regina had obviously decided the whole thing was a mistake from the moment Emma tried to impress her with the over-crowded, noisy, fashionable restaurant she found on Yelp. And then Emma spent ages rambling about her son and couldn’t think of anything else to talk about.

 

She lets herself into the building and climbs the stairs, intending to dump her stuff before collecting Henry. Unlocking the door, she’s struck by the sight. The room is dim and Regina’s there, cuddled up on the sofa with Henry, watching ‘Frozen’. They’re about halfway through, Regina’s arms wrapped around Henry who is watching with rapt fascination and giggling as Olaf sings about summer.

 

“Hey, kid,” Emma says, bending down to kiss Henry’s forehead, attempting to ignore how close this brings her to Regina, who pauses the film. Henry scowls.

 

“I should go,” Regina says, attempting to get up, but Henry plants himself more firmly on her lap.

 

“No,” he says, wrapping his arms around her neck. Emma notices Regina stiffen.

 

“Henry,” Emma says, warning in her voice.

 

“Regina can stay for dinner,” Henry says, pursing his lips and knitting his eyebrows together, doing his best angry face.

 

Emma had been intending to chuck some chicken nuggets in the oven and call it a night. “Henry, you can’t just _decide_ these things. Regina probably has stuff to do.”

 

“She doesn’t,” Henry says. “Right?” It seems Regina’s incapable of lying to Henry because she just nods.

 

“I don’t want to impose,” she says.

 

“You’re not,” Henry says with the confidence of someone who doesn’t know what ‘impose’ means. “Turn Olaf back on.”

 

Regina meets Emma’s eyes and it’s hard to get a read on what she’s thinking. She’s softer than she was yesterday, the sexy dress replaced with leggings and a loose sweater, shoes removed to reveal bare feet, long and lean, and hair loose and wavy around her neck. She’s beautiful and it kills Emma. Regina presses play and strokes Henry’s hair as he snuggles into her.

 

Emma stomps into the kitchen, finds a leek in the fridge and some potatoes in the cupboard. Soup it is. Using a knife is cathartic and she chops thin slices of leek and potato in record time, letting the water for stock hiss and boil, and butter melt in the soup pot. The leeks and garlic sizzle when she drops them into the butter.

 

She can’t handle this, a Regina who doesn’t think she’s good enough to date but insinuates herself into Henry’s life. Emma’s careful about the people she lets in, for good reason; Henry’s never had to deal with anyone Emma sees as more than a friend before. And judging by how quickly Henry has warmed to Regina, he’s not going to let her go so easily.

 

The soup just needs time to simmer now. She puts the lid on the pot and moves to the doorway, leaning against the frame and watching Regina and Henry on the couch. Henry gasps when Hans reveals himself as a villain, as if he hasn’t seen the movie a million times before, and even Regina lets out a squeak of outrage.

 

The movie finishes as Emma starts to mash the soup with a potato masher. They don’t own a blender and, anyway, she and Henry both like chunky soup better. Regina enters the kitchen. “Anything I can do to help?”

 

“Set the table,” Emma grunts, focusing on the masher, determinedly not looking at Regina. She hears the clutter of knives and forks, bowls and placemats, and Regina is gone.

 

Dinner is awkward. Henry regales her with stories of his day of with Regina. “We went on the swings and the slide and played on the castle,” he says. “Regina bought me an ice cream.”

 

“Did she now?” Emma asks, not looking at Regina. “You’re pretty lucky.”

 

Regina’s silent throughout dinner, delicately spooning soup. It’s not Emma’s best effort, not enough salt and she used chicken stock instead of vegetable stock because she didn’t pay attention to the labels. Emma’s mostly just eating bread.

 

By the end of dinner, Henry’s pretty much falling asleep in his chair but he insists on Regina saying good night to him and, because Emma doesn’t want to deal with a grizzly, sulky Henry, she just gets his teeth brushed and helps him into his pyjamas. “Good night, baby boy,” she says, bending over him and nuzzling his cheek with her nose.

 

He giggles sleepily and wraps his arms around her neck. “I love you, Mama.”

 

“You can come in,” she says brusquely to Regina, who is standing in the doorway. She moves away from the bed and lets Regina take her place.

 

She sits and kisses his forehead. “Sweet dreams, Henry.”

 

“Night,” Henry murmurs. Regina stands and Emma shuts the door to his room behind them, the glow of his nightlight keeping him content.

 

“Thanks for looking after Henry,” Emma says, herding her towards the door. “I’ll see you around.”

 

“Emma,” Regina says and there’s hesitancy in her voice that Emma’s not heard before. “Can we talk?”

 

“I’d rather not,” Emma says. “You’re not interested in me in that way. It’s cool. I don’t need to know the details.”

 

Regina’s silent for a moment. Then she huffs, “God, you are such an idiot.”

 

“I’m sorry?” Emma hisses, moving closer to Regina, getting into her space in spite of herself. “I’m an idiot? You were totally awful last night. You didn’t talk. You sat there with this totally judgemental expression on your face. Christ, Regina, if you didn’t want to go out with me you could’ve just said no.”

 

“I’ve never done this before,” Regina says and her voice cracks on the ‘before’.

 

“But you’d been there before,” she says. “On a date.”

 

“With a man,” Regina says, “who my mother set me up with, who insisted on paying and plied me with wine and tried to hook up with me at the end of the night. I’ve never been out with someone I actually _like_ and I fell back on patterns of behaviour and, fuck, I hated myself at the end of the night.”

 

“Oh God,” Emma says. Absurdly, the first thing that pops into her mind is that she’s never heard Regina swear before. “Yeah, we need to talk.” She sits on the couch, tucking her feet up under her, Regina sitting stiffly at the other end. “Okay,” Emma says. “So you like me?”

 

“That’s what you took from that?” Regina asks, an eyebrow raised in incredulity.

 

“No,” Emma says. “But I just thought we’d get the important stuff out of the way first. I like you too.”

 

A smile plays across Regina’s face, faint but present. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she confesses.

 

“Neither do I,” Emma says. “I thought I was doing it right, taking you somewhere like that, somewhere fancy. I didn’t realise it’d be, like, triggering.”

 

“It’s been my self-defence for so long,” Regina says, sighing. “Apparently I can’t turn it off.”

 

“I was nervous too,” Emma says. “I really wanted it to be a good night and when it went to shit I just wanted to get out. Your response is to freeze people out; mine’s to run.” If Regina had been the one with the son and Emma had been in her position, she wouldn’t have turned up for a play date the next day; she would have cut and run.

 

“My mother’s been pushing these guys on me since I moved to Boston,” Regina says. “I could have got away with being a late bloomer but … circumstances made it tricky. Most of my freshman year was spent being set up on dates with people who would provide good connections. That’s why Graham and I ‘fell in love’.”

 

Emma wants to reach out, to take Regina’s hand but resists, the woman still tense, sitting too upright. “Circumstances?”

 

“Not today,” Regina says sharply. “Mother’s losing faith in Graham’s longevity. I’m being set up again, the son of a business acquaintance of Mother’s.”

 

“What’s the long term plan?” Emma asks. “You marry Graham?”

 

“Graham wouldn’t do that,” she says and it disturbs Emma, that she’s considered that possibility and rejected it because of Graham, not her own feelings. “I just need six more months with him.”

 

“And then?”

 

“I’ve already been offered a TA position in the History faculty and if I keep up my GPA I’ll get a scholarship to law school,” she says. “I can survive on that when my mother disinherits me.”

 

“Surely she wouldn’t–“

 

“It’s not a good idea to underestimate my mother,” Regina says, voice low and dangerous. “It never fails to catch people out.”

 

“Okay,” Emma says. It’s complicated and Regina’s a lot more fucked up that she realised but she’s being honest and more than anything Emma just wants to make her smile. “Cocoa?”

 

Emma heats milk while Regina finds mugs and the chocolate powder. “Do you have whipped cream?” she asks.

 

“What do you take me for? A heathen?” Emma asks. “In the fridge.”

 

Back on the sofa, Regina edges closer to Emma and Emma can feel the heat of her body flush against hers and wants so much to kiss her but she restrains herself barely because Regina’s emotional and Emma doesn’t want to push her and ruin the fragile peace that’s existing between them. She drinks her cocoa, deliberately sticking her nose in the cream and looking over at Regina who rolls her eyes. “Really, Emma. At least Henry has the excuse of being two and a half.” She smiles though and Emma grins back and wipes the cream off with her finger.

 

“Made you smile though,” Emma says.

 

“You always make me smile,” Regina says so softly that Emma almost misses it and, you know what, screw everything, Emma’s got to kiss her. She sticks her half-finished cocoa on the bookshelf and takes Regina’s as well.

 

“Can I?” she asks.

 

“I’m sure you _can_ ,” Regina says, snarky, “but _may_ –“

 

But Emma pulls her close, kisses her hard and intense. “Grammar snob,” she murmurs against Regina’s lips.

 

“Fool,” Regina responds but there’s no malice in her voice and Emma kisses a line down her jaw to her neck. Her skin is soft and warm and Emma can feel Regina’s pulse beating too fast and hands tentatively tracing circles on Emma’s back, her skin tingling where the fingertips touch.

 

“Rude,” Emma whispers and she actually hears Regina whimper when she nips at the scar adorning her top lip. She has her hands buried in Regina’s hair, an attempt to pull Regina as close to her as possible and she can feel Regina’s body snaked against hers.

 

It’s where she hoped they’d be last night and even though they took a pretty circuitous route to get there it’s pretty damn good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're getting this slightly earlier than I anticipated because a) I'm on holiday for the next fortnight so have more time to write and b) when I went to leave my apartment to do useful chores there's a moving van blocking my car and my driveway so I took the window of opportunity.
> 
> I really enjoyed the response to last chapter!


	11. Capriccio

 

The next week fades into a sort of blur for Regina. She studies compulsively and practises the clarinet all week. She and Emma carpool to and from band practice and eat with Henry beforehand.

 

The big difference is that Wednesday night is not the only time she sees Emma. They spend the weekend before Thanksgiving together. “Henry’s inviting you for a sleepover,” Emma says on Wednesday, intercepting her at the door. “Please note that this was not my idea.”

 

“Regina!” Henry yells, jumping off the couch. “You come sleepover on Saturday please.” Regina looks over at Emma who looks pained.

 

“He’s not yet learned to phrase requests as actual questions,” Emma says.

 

“I would love to,” Regina says and Emma’s head jerks up in surprise.

 

“So,” Emma says when Henry’s run to grab something. “You can’t cope with a simple date but sleeping over’s okay?” She’s grinning.

 

Regina attempts to appear aloof. “It’s for Henry.”

 

“Well, in that case,” Emma says. “Henry would really like you to kiss me.”

 

Regina laughs and complies, and on Saturday evening, she packs her pyjamas and toothbrush and walks the few blocks to Emma’s apartment. Henry’s totally hyped up already, dancing around the living room to Emma’s iPod. “I’m about to order pizza,” Emma says. “Any dislikes?”

 

“Pineapple,” Regina says, putting her bag down and slipping out of her shoes.

 

Emma gasps and dials for pizza. “Sacrilege! Henry, Regina can’t stay. She doesn’t like pineapple on pizza.”

 

Henry giggles and grabs her hand. “Dance.” So Regina twirls Henry and teaches him to dance (because she was a debutante once and she still remembers the steps). Emma watches them from the doorway to the kitchen, laughing when Henry tries to twirl Regina and she ends up tangled and almost falling over.

 

Henry makes them change into their pyjamas and they eat on the couch, watching ‘Lilo and Stitch’. Henry’s obviously seen it before because he can recite every line. It’s towards the end, when Henry’s resting his head on Emma’s shoulder, eyelids fluttering shut, that Regina realises Emma’s crying.

 

“You okay?” Regina asks and Emma nods.

 

“Every time,” she says, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. “This damn movie.” And Regina remembers that Emma was abandoned as a baby and wants to kiss her but is all too aware of Henry between them.

 

“All right, kid, movie’s over. Time for bed,” Emma says as the credits roll.

 

Henry grumbles. “You go to bed too,” he says.

 

“Teeth,” Emma responds, following him to the bathroom. Regina grabs her own toothbrush and brushes her teeth at the kitchen sink. By the time she’s done, Henry’s back, picture books in one hand and he’s using the other to pull her and Emma to Emma’s bedroom. With inexpressible glee he bounds onto the double bed. “Nuh-uh,” Emma says. “Own bed, kid.”

 

“No,” Henry says, jutting out his bottom lip and burrowing under the covers. “Here.”

 

Regina smirks at the embarrassed flush on Emma’s face. She’d seen the pillow and blankets at the end of the couch, obviously intended for Regina. “It’s fine,” she says.

 

“Henry’s got to learn that not everything in life goes his way,” Emma grumbles, though she kicks off her slippers and pulls her hoodie over her head, leaving her in a thin tank top and sweatpants. Regina tries in vain not to stare at Emma’s breasts but knows Emma’s noticed when the smirk that was on Regina’s face is mirrored on Emma’s features. Emma gets into bed and Regina gets in the other side, the two of them sandwiching Henry.

 

Emma reads Henry a couple of stories from a book of fairy tales, doing ridiculous voices for the characters, and by the time she’s done, Henry’s asleep, lying on his back and snoring gently. “You can sleep on the couch if you want,” Emma says, sitting up on her elbows and looking over at her. “Or Henry’s bed. I know this is weird.”

 

“I’m good where I am,” Regina says, lying back against the pillows.

 

Emma smiles. “You might regret that at five in the morning,” she says. “I’ve mentioned Henry’s an early riser, right?”

 

It’s early still but Regina finds it easy to sleep, drifting off to the sound of Henry’s snoring. She wakes the next morning to Henry jumping on the bed. “Up, up!” he cries.

 

Emma groans. “Hey, kid, us old people need a bit more time to wake up in the morning.” Regina feels the covers shift and Emma and Henry are gone. Then she hears the sound of morning cartoons and a moment late, Emma’s flopped back on the bed. “I warned you,” she murmurs. “Elmo’s World should give us a good few minutes reprieve.”

 

Regina opens one eye. “Good,” she says. “Because I’ve been wanting you to kiss me since last night.” Emma rolls over, pinning Regina’s body down with her own and kisses her, slow and sleepy and intoxicating. She moans into Emma’s mouth, and pulls her closer. Emma’s hands scrape under Regina’s pyjama shirt, clutching at her back, her stomach, one hand reaching up to cup one of her breasts, causing a jolt of sensation to run through Regina’s body. She whimpers and claws at Emma’s tank top, kisses her collar bone and nips at the base of her neck.

 

Emma’s leg shifts and her knee rubs between Regina’s thighs and Regina’s body clenches. It’s too much, too soon and the feeling of losing control is so dangerously sweet. For just a moment, she allows herself to get completely lost in the sensation of Emma’s mouth on hers.

 

“We should get up,” she says, drawing her head back and stroking Emma’s blonde hair back from her forehead.

 

Emma groans, cheeks flushed pink and rolls onto her back. “God.”

 

“Do you really want to take this any further when Henry could wander in at any stage?” she asks. Emma’s top is hiked up to her armpits, her breasts moving with her slow, heavy breathing, nipples pink and taut, and Regina has to work hard to resist the urge not to bury herself in them.

 

“Fine,” Emma sighs. Regina rolls out of bed and Emma pulls her top down and finds her hoodie on the floor. “Breakfast?”

 

Regina makes them scrambled eggs and, later, when she has to return home, Emma follows her into the hallway, pushes her against the wall and kisses her, fierce and bruising. “I’ll miss you,” she says. They don’t have band this week because of Gold’s Thanksgiving travel plans and Regina has three assignments due so her time isn’t her own until after the weekend.

 

“You too,” Regina says, curling an arm around her, wanting to feel Emma against her. “I’ll be back on Sunday.”

 

She arrives at her mother’s house in Storybrooke in the early afternoon, plenty of time to go before the big Thanksgiving dinner on Friday evening. The house is an imposing, picture-perfect mansion, one that was not much fun to grow up in because woe betide the person who scuffed the polished floors or knocked the paintings askew.

 

Mother greets her at the door. “Regina, dear,” she says, hugging her. Regina kisses her cheek, the skin papery and her mother’s hug brittle.

 

“Are you well, Mother?” she asks.

 

“Peak of health,” her mother says airily. “Take your bags up to your room and change for dinner.”

 

“I was just going to wear this,” Regina says, gesturing at the black wrap-around dress.

 

Her mother looks appraisingly at her, lip curling at the exposed cleavage. “No, dear, that won’t do. I’ve laid something out on your bed.”

 

Regina sighs but goes upstairs to her bedroom, exactly the same as it was when she was seventeen, single bed and desk, bookshelves full of novels, old sheet music tucked away on the bottom shelf. Everything’s pink and white because her mother controlled everything about the house, including Regina’s décor.

 

On her bed is a black dress, new judging by the still-attached tags. Reluctantly, because she really liked what she was wearing, she pulls off her current dress and slips the new one on. It hugs her figure (perhaps a bit too tight because her mother is nothing if not aspirational and she won’t let Regina forget the fact that for a brief period in high school she was chubby) but comes down past her knees and up to her neck. The sleeves stop at her elbows. She is reminded of Belle’s comment about her dressing like an ‘Italian Widow’ and for some reason, today of all days, it irks her. In a moment of ultimately insignificant rebellion she pulls off her pantyhose and goes bare legged.

 

“Can I help with anything?” she asks. Her mother’s in the kitchen, apron on – though it’s primarily for show because most of Thanksgiving dinner will be catered. It never used to be, but now her mother runs Mills Enterprises she doesn’t have time to spend days preparing for Thanksgiving dinner. Her mother makes the desserts though.

 

“You can peel and slice the apples,” her mother says, passing her a bowl and a knife, and Regina finds an apron and gets to work. “The dress looks lovely.”

 

“A bit severe, don’t you think?” Regina says.

 

Her mother hums her disapproval at Regina’s comment as she continues kneading pastry, and for a considerable period of time the kitchen is silent, but for the Bach her mother has playing on the stereo. When the pies are finally in the oven, it’s four o’clock. “Cup of tea, dear?”

 

Regina nods and sits at the kitchen table, grabbing her phone, which has a message from an hour or two ago on it from Emma. _Henry’s trying to make pumpkin pie. Disaster in the kitchen._ She’s attached a photo, a selfie. There’s orange gloop all over the walls of Emma’s tiny kitchen, Emma’s frowning though her eyes are full of mirth and Henry’s round face is stretched with a grin.

 

“A message from Graham?” her mother asks, bringing over two mugs of herbal tea, apple and cinnamon judging by the smell, and sitting next to her.

 

“No,” Regina says without thinking, exiting out of the image and locking her phone.

 

“Oh?” Her mother raises an eyebrow. “That was quite a fond smile. Is there someone else on the horizon then?”

 

“Just a friend sending a picture of her very cute child,” she says, hoping that her voice is sufficiently nonchalant.

 

She’s not sure if her mother buys it but she changes the subject. “Now, how are your applications going for law school?”

 

“Basically complete,” she says. “I’ve got my letters of recommendation, filled out the application forms. I just have to sit the LSAT, which I’m doing in December.” She’s applying everywhere in Massachusetts but would love to continue on at Harvard and knows she stands a good chance. She’s talked to professors, done all the right things, is more than qualified…

 

“Who are your references?” her mother asks.

 

“I have two of my history professors and the political science professor I did the summer research assistantship this year,” she says.

 

Her mother nods. “Excellent choices.” Rather than buoy her up, today her mother’s rare praise irritates her. She _knows_ they’re excellent choices; she chose them for that reason. She’s the one applying for law schools, not her mother. “And your clarinet goes well?”

 

“Yes,” Regina says. “We have the Christmas concert coming up. You should come to Boston for it.”

 

“I will do my best.” Regina knows she’ll be there, she’s always there. It’s the one thing Regina can count on her mother for, to be there to see her succeed.

 

Her mother reaches out and touches her hair, pushing a short lock of hair across to the other side of her face. “It looks so lovely loose around your face,” she says. When Regina was a teenager she tied her hair back in braids and ponytails constantly. It came down to her waist. She knows it irritated her mother who worried that her face looked too round with her hair pulled back; the long hair annoyed her too come to that but it was one small teen rebellion that her mother couldn’t fight against. Long hair is very feminine after all. “It’s such a pity about your scar. Is the concealer cream doing nothing?”

 

The scar’s been there since she was a little girl, an incident in gym class with a game of tag that got out of hand. Her mother had been furious, threatened to sue the school district. Regina has grown used to it now and she loves the way Emma kisses it, touches it. She just sighs in response to her mother and sips her tea. Out the window, the leaves, neatly swept into piles, are golden, a few picked up by a stray breeze. “I think your guests are starting to arrive.”

 

It’s Doc, her former therapist, a bottle of wine in one hand and flowers in the other. “Regina Mills,” he says. “Look at you, all grown up.” He says the same thing every time she sees him. She kisses his cheek and takes his coat.

 

“What can I get you?”

 

“I wouldn’t say no to a scotch,” he says, grinning.

 

“Coming right up.”

 

The lounge is starting to fill up when Kathryn Midas and her fiancé arrive. They were friends in high school but particularly towards the end of Regina’s junior year and Kathryn’s senior year, when Regina had gone to her sobbing about falling in love with a girl. Kathryn’s response had been to hug her and try and set her up with the one out gay girl at their school. A better response than some others.

 

“Darling,” Kathryn says, enveloping her in a tight hug. “You know Jim, right?”

 

“You played football, right?” Regina says. She knows Jim’s a teacher at the high school but she’s never had much to do with him. He was a few years ahead of her at school.

 

“Quarterback,” Jim says. “Good memory. I’ll get us drinks, honey.”

 

“So,” Kathryn says. “How are you? Any cute girls on the horizon?” The last question is said in an undertone, after darting her eyes dramatically around. They’re alone in the foyer. Kathryn asks this every time she and Regina meet and the answer’s always the same. No.

 

So Regina can’t help the smile that spreads across her face when she thinks about the possibilities of Emma. “There is one.”

 

Kathryn squeals and Mother Superior, passing by with a glass of sherry, turns around and stares at them. Kathryn just waves. “Girl talk,” she says. “It’s the first time I’m seen Regina since my engagement. Look at my ring, Regina,” she says, flashing an enormous diamond.

 

Mother Superior smiles and pats Kathryn’s arm. “You’re a good girl.” She looks suspiciously at Regina who is apparently not a ‘good girl’. She obviously wasn’t fooled by Regina pretending she goes to church on the regular.

 

“I need to fix my hair,” Kathryn says. “Come with.” Regina follows her upstairs to her bedroom, where Kathryn fiddles with hair in the mirror at Regina’s vanity and then flops onto her bed. “So who is she?”

 

“Her name’s Emma,” Regina says. “She plays the trumpet in my band.”

 

“Is she pretty?” Kathryn asks.

 

Regina laughs. “You’re so…”

 

“Delightful?”

 

“I was going to say superficial.”

 

“Whatever. Pretty?” Kathryn’s actually really smart. She inherited business acumen from her father and could have gone into business with him but opened a coffee shop in Storybrooke that does a roaring trade, despite her not bothering with college beyond a couple of years at community college. “No point wasting money on something I don’t need,” she’d said when Regina had expressed concern. “I’ll go and get a PhD when I’m an old lady and need hobbies.”

 

“She’s beautiful,” Regina says, “and strong and goofy and a bit of an idiot sometimes.”

 

“You are so smitten,” Kathryn says. “I take it Cora doesn’t know.”

 

Regina shakes her head. “She’s been successfully refusing to acknowledge my lesbianism for five years. Do you really think she’d know about a girlfriend? Graham and I have a very serious, long term relationship.”

 

“Ugh,” Kathryn says. “That guy is such a babe.”

 

“You’re engaged,” Regina says.

 

Kathryn just laughs. There’s a knock at the bedroom door and Regina jumps because what if it was her mother? What if she heard any of their conversation? Her mother would have just walked in though. “Ladies? I think we’re about to have dinner.” It’s Jim.

 

“Come in,” Kathryn calls and Jim opens the door.

 

“So who’s a babe?” he asks.

 

Kathryn stands and wraps around him. “You, sweetie,” she says, kissing his cheek. “Also, Regina’s boyfriend.”

 

“Okay,” Jim says easily. “Shall we?”

 

Regina finds herself seated between Doc and a man she’s never met before. “Regina,” her mother says. “This is Rob. He was at a loose end for Thanksgiving so I invited him.”

 

Regina scans her brain for the name ‘Rob’ and realises this is the start of the set up. She thought she had another week or so to prepare. He’s okay looking, she supposes, tall and well-built with sandy hair and a fair amount of stubble. Clearly her mother thinks she has a type. “Hi,” he says.

 

“Hello,” Regina replies, eying her empty glass and wondering whether she should remind her mother that she’s twenty-one now and old enough for a glass of wine. The food is passed around and they tuck in. Kathryn catches her eye from down the table and pulls a face. She’s stuck between Mother Superior and Regina’s high school Calculus teacher who is a good friend of Mother’s.

 

“So,” Rob says. “The delightful parental set-up. Such fun. What do you do, Regina?”

 

“I’m studying,” she says. “Senior year. I’m pre-law.”

 

He looks at her for a moment. “Okay, you’re a baby. Why does your mother talk about you like you’re an old maid?”

 

Regina forgets to be stiff and frozen and actually snorts with laughter. “How old are you?” she asks.

 

“Thirty-two,” he says, and while she’s not opposed to age gaps as a rule, her mother’s starting to piss her off.

 

“Regina’s very accomplished,” her mother says to Rob from her place at the head of the table. “She plays the clarinet exquisitely and is very widely read.”

 

“I also do a good line in embroidering cushions,” she mutters and Rob laughs.

 

“Regina,” her mother says, lips tightening, and normally that’d be enough to stop her.

 

“No,” she says. “This is ridiculous. Who is this guy? No offense, Rob.”

 

“None taken,” he says.

 

“He’s the son of a business acquaintance,” her mother says. “I thought you might get along.”

 

“You thought we might get married,” Regina says. All the rage she’s bottled up is bubbling to the surface. There’s this surge of bravery in her that she’s never felt, not around her mother. Her hands clench.

 

“Kitchen, now,” her mother hisses, face pale and eyes dark and angry.

 

“No,” Regina says. “Here, now.”

 

“Regina’s a little upset that her boyfriend refused to come to Thanksgiving dinner,” her mother says, looking around at her guests, as if to say ‘poor, unstable Regina’.

 

“The reason Graham isn’t here is because he’s not my boyfriend. He never has been. Because I’m gay.”

 

Kathryn claps and then takes a long drink from her wine glass to hide her face when everyone at the table stares at her. Mother Superior’s lips are pinched. Her mother’s friends look universally shocked. One has knocked over a wine glass and red wine soaks into the bright white tablecloth like blood. Doc places a reassuring hand on her arm. Regina pushes her chair out, stands and runs upstairs.

 

She pulls off the constricting dress, barely resisting the urge to throw it on the floor and stomp on it, and puts her own dress back on, kicks off her heels and throws them into her suitcase. She can hear thumping footsteps and then her mother’s in her room. “Regina Mills, you will come downstairs right now and apologise to our guests,” she says, her breathing too swift and grabbing Regina's arm so hard she can feel the nails leave grooves.

 

“For what?” she asks, wrenching away from her mother and pushing her down on the bed. “Telling the truth for the first time in my life? I’m going back to Boston. I’ll spend Thanksgiving with people who are _thankful_ to have me around.”

 

She storms down the stairs and slams the front door. She makes it halfway to Boston before the magnitude of what she’s just done sinks in.


	12. Appassionato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: this is where the M-rating comes into play.

Henry wakes up at seven, a real sleep in for him, and when he does wake, he clambers into her bed, sneaking up from the bottom of the bed under the covers. In doing so, Emma’s feet are left exposed and she shivers at the sudden chill. “Hey kid,” she whispers. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

 

“Story?” he asks, pulling the duvet over both of their heads, creating a tent.

 

“Which one?” she replies.

 

“Me,” he says.

 

“Once upon a time,” Emma says, “there was a girl with long blonde hair who played the trumpet. She was very alone and very scared and she found out she was going to have a baby.” She always skips the sordid details when she tells Henry this story – that his father abandoned them, that in her darkest moments she wondered whether giving him up was a better option – and focuses on the good. How the girl’s little boy made her feel less alone, how she loved him so much she could hardly breathe from the second he was born.

 

Henry touches her lips with his fingers when she finishes and for a moment she thinks that he is going to say something profound but then he smiles and says, “breakfast?” so they get up and Emma puts the coffee on. Henry eats Rice Krispies, crushing them up into “pixie dust” before letting her pour in the milk, a habit that irritates Emma because of the mess it creates but she’s not going to fight about it today. She sips coffee and tries to wake up.

 

“What do you want to do, kid?” she asks.

 

Henry tilts his head to one side. “Dance.”

 

She sets up her iPod on the playlist she’s been creating for Henry and for the rest of the morning they listen to Louie Armstrong and The Wiggles and Bon Jovi (because Henry has eclectic taste in music). Emma can’t help but join in with his dancing, grateful that the downstairs neighbours are away for the holidays because Henry thumps and stomps when he dances and Emma can’t help but do the same.

 

By lunchtime, Henry has exhausted himself, eats half a sandwich, throws a tantrum because the cheese is cut too thick and falls asleep on the couch. Emma throws a blanket over him and preps vegetables for their roast, throwing peeled potatoes and carrot and pumpkin into a plastic bag of flour to coat them. She hasn’t bought a turkey – she’s never been fond of the meat – but the roast chicken should be an excellent alternative.

 

Then she settles down with another cup of coffee and a bagel and does some of the accounts that have been piling up. Henry wakes a little while later, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and staggers off the couch, clutching at her knee.

 

“Shall we make our pie, kid?” He nods enthusiastically and grabs a chair so he can help in the kitchen. She lays the sweet short crust pastry into the pie pan, letting Henry press it into the corners, and opens the tin of pureed pumpkin filling. She’s never been good at desserts but it’ll taste good anyway. She bets Regina’s having fancy pie, made from scratch. “You pour it in,” she says, handing Henry the can, and Henry does so but he shakes it too hard and the pumpkin gloop flies everywhere – bench, walls and floor.

 

Henry’s lower lip trembles. “I broke it.”

 

Emma, grateful she’d gone with the two-for-one deal at the supermarket, pulls the other can out of the cupboard. “Hey, kiddo, it’s okay.”

 

“It’s ruined,” he says.

 

“No,” she says. “You’ve just kindly redecorated the kitchen for me. I’ve always wanted orange walls.”

 

Henry’s lips hint at a smile. “Don’t be silly, Mama.”

 

“Shall we send a picture to Regina?” she suggests and pulls her phone from her pocket. Photos always make Henry smile and this time is no exception. Henry’s grin stretches across his face and she takes the picture, an exaggerated grimace spreading across her features. She types a quick message and sends it, before finishing the pie and putting it in the oven.

 

While waiting for the chicken to cook, Henry puts on a puppet show for her, using his koala and a series of toy dinosaurs as the characters. She doesn’t know what it’s about, but he’s certainly enthusiastic about it. And then dinner is ready. “What are you thankful for?” she asks.

 

“You,” Henry says. It’s the first year he’s joined in giving thanks, and Emma wells up. She’s becoming such a sap in her old age. “And Ari and Melody and Eric and David and Mary Marg’ret and Regina and the grumpy man and all my dinosaurs and…” He continues, listing every other person he’s ever encountered, and most of the animals and his soft toys.

 

“Well,” Emma said, holding in her laughter when he finally finishes. “I’m thankful for my favourite little boy. And Mary Margaret and Ari and David,” she adds, mocking him just a little. She’s thankful for Regina, even though surely it’s too soon and a bit too romantic for Emma’s taste – and she suspects Regina’s.

 

“Food now,” Henry declares and, laughing, Emma dishes up a large helping of meat and vegetables for him and then herself.

 

Later on, Henry lies on the couch groaning. “Sick, Mama,” he says, rubbing his stomach.

 

“You ate too much, buddy,” she says, with limited sympathy since she’s had to change out of jeans and into sweatpants herself. “That’s what happens.” There’s still pumpkin filling all over the walls of the kitchen. Emma contemplates it for a moment and decides that clean-up can wait until tomorrow. “Budge up, kid.”

 

Henry pulls his feet up, letting Emma collapse on the sofa. She pulls him onto her lap and grabs the television remote. “Shall we watch something?” He snuggles into her, his back pressing against her chest, hair tickling her chin.

 

The only things playing on the limited channels she has access to are ‘Friends’ re-runs. Henry likes ‘Friends’ _,_ though he obviously doesn’t understand it. The characters have loud voices and there are plenty of visual gags so he giggles along with the canned laughter until he falls asleep on top of her halfway through the episode where they go to Las Vegas. Emma picks him up, puts him in his pyjamas and tucks him into in bed, sitting beside him for a moment and stroking his hair.

 

He looks so peaceful, dark eyelashes fluttering against his pale skin, his cheeks round and pink, his hair flopping over his eyes. She’ll have to take him to the hairdresser’s soon. After a moment contemplating the absolute perfection that is her child (not that she’s unduly biased), she goes to the kitchen and grabs a plastic bowl, putting it on the floor by his bed. Hopefully if he does wake up in the night to vomit, he’ll notice it.

 

She returns to the living room, picking up the last of the dishes from the table and sticking them in the sink. She boils water for a cup of tea, the old-fashioned stove top kettle whistling as it boils. Hot mug in her hands, she returns to the couch and switches the television off, content to sit and think.

 

It’s been her best Thanksgiving yet.

 

There’s a knock at the door. Emma groans getting off the couch because her body is aching and tired and the last piece of pie was definitely a mistake.

 

When she opens the door, Regina’s standing there, a manic grin on her face, cheeks flushed and eyes blazing. “I did it,” she says. “I fucking did it.”

 

“Did what?” Emma asks.

 

“I told the truth,” she says and then she’s dropped her coat and bag by the door, grabbed Emma by the fabric of her sweatshirt and is kissing her passionately, mouth bruising. It’s messy and wet and it takes Emma a moment to respond because it’s the first time Regina’s made the first move since band camp when she was drunk. She doesn’t _seem_ drunk now.

 

When they break apart, Emma’s chest is heaving. “Wow,” she says. “What happened?”

 

“I just got tired of pandering to this twisted lie about my life,” Regina says. She’s speaking a bit too loudly, voice slightly sharp. “I’m sick of being a lesbian who’s never once been with a woman because I’m afraid of what losing control means. I’m sick of my mother dictating my life choices.”

 

Emma suspects that when Regina comes down from the high of righteousness, she’ll be a mass of anxiety, but just now, she’s glorious. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“No,” Regina says and there’s a hint of the devil in her smile. “I want to act.” Emma just stares at her as Regina pulls her dress over her head, throwing it on the couch.

 

“Wow,” Emma says. Regina in clothes is a pretty spectacular image but seeing her standing in Emma’s living room clad only in a bra and panties kind of makes Emma’s brain stop working. “Just – wow.”

 

“Thanks,” Regina says, raising an eyebrow, but there’s a momentary uncertainty in her movements, shifting from one foot to the other and an awkwardness in her hands so Emma takes one hand in hers and pulls her to her bedroom.

 

“Unless you want Henry scarred for life,” she says and Regina actually giggles. They barely make it through the door when Regina’s on her again, pulling Emma’s sweatshirt and tank top over her head, getting them tangled in her hair in her haste. Emma kicks her sweatpants off and Regina backs her over the bed, pushing her down and climbing on top of her; her body is lithe and sensuous and Emma just wants to look at her, to drink in the beauty.

 

But Regina’s clearly in charge of this encounter and she presses herself against Emma, skin to skin, legs hemming Emma’s in. She kisses Emma’s neck, licking and nibbling and sucking in a way that makes Emma think she’ll probably leaves marks, and Emma’s hands are on Regina’s bra, fiddling with the clasp. She gets it undone and can help but let out a little cheer.

 

Regina looks at her, amused. “Did you just–“

 

“Shut up,” Emma says and Regina sits up, still straddling Emma, and throws her bra aside. Emma stares at her chest, before sitting up herself, hand trailing across one breast, feeling Regina shiver beneath her fingertips. She takes a dark nipple in her mouth and she nips and sucks until it’s hard, a finger thrumming the nipple on her other breast, and Regina makes these breathy, sighing noises and throws her head back, baring the slender curve of her neck. Her fingers rake down Emma’s back, at once painful and pleasurable.

 

“Is that your phone?” Emma asks and Regina hisses at the loss of contact.

 

“Let it ring,” Regina says, voice husky, and Emma wants to let that happen but it rings again and if she can hear it then so can Henry.

 

“We’ll have Henry in here any minute if it keeps going,” Emma says, kissing the smooth skin covering Regina’s collar bone. “You need to turn it off.”

 

Regina grimaces but gets up, pulling Emma’s tank top on to make the trip out of the bedroom, which is so inexpressibly sexy Emma’s tempted to just pull her back down and to hell with everything else.

“Kathryn’s called three times,” she says, coming back into the room and sitting down on the bed. Emma reaches out and strokes her velvety thigh.

 

“Who’s Kathryn?”

 

“High school friend,” Regina says. “She was very excited to hear that you’re pretty.” Her phone starts ringing again. “Kathryn, excellent timing, thank you.” She’s silent for a moment and Emma can hear indistinct mumblings. Then Regina speaks again. “No, I’m not telling you that.” More silence. “Ugh. You’re disgusting.” She hangs up. “Kathryn says hi.”

 

Emma scrambles to sit beside her. “Is everything okay?” she asks.

 

“She wanted to make sure I made it back to Boston okay,” Regina says. “Mother’s apparently furious. I’m sure I’ll hear all about that tomorrow.”

 

Emma wraps an arm around her shoulder and Regina falls back into her arms. “What can I do?”

 

“Help me forget about it, just for one night,” she says. The bravado is gone from her voice and she suddenly looks very young.

 

“I can do that,” Emma says, smiling. She kisses Regina, soft at first but building in intensity, unfastening her own bra and pulling the tank top off Regina. “Tell me if anything’s too much,” she says, pushing her down onto the bed and slowly, delicately, kissing a line from her mouth to her belly button. Regina’s incredibly responsive, trembling and letting out these breathy sighs as Emma kisses.

 

Regina’s hands go to her underwear. They’re shaking slightly and Emma reminds herself that Regina hasn’t done this before, reminds herself to take it slow. She pulls them down, kicking them off. Emma moves back up Regina’s body, kisses her, one of Regina’s hands clasping the back of her head to pull her closer. Emma’s hand weaves lower, finding damp curls and she strokes a finger through the wet heat, gratified to hear Regina suck in a breath.

 

“Okay?”

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Regina says, irritated. “I won’t break, Swan.”

 

So Emma slides one finger, and then a second, inside her, thrusting, thumb rubbing circles around her clit, and Regina gasps, kisses Emma sloppily. Emma licks her neck and tastes salt. Regina’s breathing is heavier and Emma’s rubbing herself against Regina’s thigh, the glorious friction making her so close herself. And then Regina falls apart, body tensing, mouth open. A low, loud groan crescendoes from within her.

 

It only takes a few more thrusts against Regina’s thigh before Emma’s coming as well and she collapses briefly on Regina, before rolling off, lying on her side and stroking her fingers across Regina’s stomach. “Okay?” she asks and Regina kisses her.

 

“We are definitely doing that again sometime,” she says and Emma laughs.

 

Later, they lie in the dark. Regina is in Emma’s tank top and a pair of her sweatpants and is curled possessively around her body like a limpet and Emma says, “Tell me something true.” There, in that moment, she wants to know everything there is to know about Regina.

 

Regina’s silent and Emma wonders if she’s gone to sleep. Then, she says, “I was in love with Mary Margaret Blanchard when I was sixteen.” Emma tries hard not to react, though she turns her head to look at Regina. “We were in our high school band together, me, Mary Margaret and Kathryn, and even though they were the year ahead of me, they were so cool.”

 

“As most band geeks are,” Emma says and Regina slaps her arm.

 

“I told Kathryn first. She warned me Mary Margaret was straight but it all came out at a party, too many shots of tequila. I’ve never been able to stomach it since. She was kind about it, but left me in no doubt that she wasn’t interested. She promised she wouldn’t tell anyone.”

 

Emma has a horrible suspicion she knows where this is heading.

 

Regina sighs. “My mother got to her, at some church function a couple of months later. Sat her down and said how concerned she was about me, how she only wanted the best for me, how she was worried I was drawing back because I was afraid to tell her something. Mary Margaret told her everything.”

 

“Oh, babe,” Emma says. She knows her friend. Mary Margaret’s got a kind heart but she can be hopelessly naïve about other human beings’ innate goodness.

 

“I was in therapy until I left for college. No more sleepovers or friends in my room. She prayed for me, sought advice from the church. Eventually I managed to put on an act, pretend that I’d been confused. I found a male prom date, became a debutante.”

 

“Thank you,” Emma says.

 

“For what?”

 

“For telling me that,” she says, kissing her cheek. “You didn’t have to.”

 

“It’s your turn,” Regina says. “Something true.”

 

Emma’s built so many walls up over the past twenty years or so that she doesn’t know whether she can knock them down but she’ll try. “I told you Henry’s father taught me trumpet for a bit. I had a crush on him and when he started flirting, that was it for me.” She remembers time spent in Neal’s grimy bedsit, generally unsatisfying sex that made Emma feel very grown up and sophisticated. “He dumped me when I got pregnant, moved to Arizona, broke my heart.”

 

Regina’s grip around her body tightens. “I’m terrified that Neal will find out about Henry,” Emma says. “Like, get nightmares about it scared. I don’t want him in our lives.” Her voice shakes.

 

“He won’t be,” Regina says and Emma finds this strangely reassuring as she drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, thank you so much for the response to the last chapter. That was so awesome and amazing and other adjectives like that. I had a lot of fun writing that chapter.
> 
> This chapter, I found difficult and there were several iterations. I hope it works for you all.


	13. Doloroso

 

Regina wakes up in Emma’s bed, cold light streaming through the window, the blinds left open overnight. She turns to face Emma, who’s lying on her back, one leg entangled with Regina’s own and her blonde hair blanketing her face. Regina smiles and strokes the hair away from Emma’s eyes.

 

“Ungh, Henry,” Emma mutters, thwacking Regina’s hand away. “Even for you it’s too early.”

 

“Should I be insulted?” Regina murmurs and Emma’s eyes flicker open.

 

“Hey,” she says, blinking rapidly. “You’re still here.”

 

“Of course I am,” Regina says. “Where else would I be?”

 

“Dunno,” Emma says. She rubs her eyes, stretches her arms above her head, the defined muscles in her arms tensing. “I just kind of had this idea you might freak out in the night and run out on me.” Her lips curve. “Glad you didn’t.”

 

“Idiot,” Regina says and kisses her and then there’s no more talking for quite some time as Regina becomes as acquainted with Emma’s body as Emma was with hers the night before.

 

She pulls her dress back on and leaves before Henry wakes up. “I’ll talk to you later. I promise.”

 

“You better,” Emma says.

 

Belle’s not up when she returns to the apartment and Regina takes a long shower, washing her skin free of sweat and the scent of sex with apricot body scrub. Then she makes herself a coffee and does some reading for her Irish Diaspora history course. Belle pads out of her room sometime after eleven.

 

“Thought you weren’t back until tomorrow,” she says, rubbing her eyes and pulling greasy hair back into a ponytail.

 

“Change of plans,” she says. “I came out at Thanksgiving dinner instead.”

 

Belle gives her an approving nod and asks, “and you’ve been where since then?” She moves to the kitchen alcove and pours herself a coffee, bringing the coffee pot and milk over to the table.

 

“Emma’s,” Regina says, lips twitching at the corners. She pours herself a fresh cup, breathing in the earthy aroma.

 

“You totally fucked,” Belle says. “Look at you, all...” She sits down beside Regina, sticks her feet up on a chair and wiggles her toes. Her toenail polish, ruby red, is chipped and her feet are long, her second toe longer than her big toe.

 

“All what?”

 

“Floaty,” Belle says. “I’d be expecting you to be freaking out about your mother by now.”

 

“Give me a few hours,” Regina says, sipping her coffee. She thinks about Emma, face flushed and radiant in the cold, early morning light, back arched, hair wild. She didn’t make any noise when she came; Regina felt momentarily embarrassed about her comparative volume the night before.

 

“You’re totally blushing,” Belle says. “My little girl is becoming a woman.”

 

“Shut up and drink your coffee,” Regina says, her face hot.

 

She’s right in thinking the anxiety will come later. Not about sex; she’ll never regret sleeping with Emma, even if they don’t last. She’s waiting for her mother to make her move. Regina keeps her phone on, checks her emails regularly. She calls Kathryn in the afternoon.

 

“Just how mad was she?”

 

“You know Cora,” Kathryn says. “Poker face. Parts of it chipped away though, so I’d imagine pretty mad.”

 

“Perfect,” Regina groans.

 

“Hey, is Cora healthy?” Kathryn asks. “Every time I see her at church she’s gotten skinnier.”

 

“She says she is,” Regina says, though she’s been concerned herself.

 

Her mother doesn’t contact her on Sunday or Monday.

 

“Why is she not calling me?” she asks Emma over the phone on Tuesday. Regina’s in the quad, taking a break from study, bundled up in a woollen pea coat and pacing and glaring at people who are inconsiderately getting in her way as she strides. Emma’s walking to pick up Henry from day care. She can hear traffic in the background. “I’m _never_ allowed the last word.”

 

“Maybe she just needs time?” Emma suggests.

 

“No,” Regina says. “I’ve been disowned. This is it. She’ll stop the automatic payments to my landlord, close my bank account, and renege on my college fees.”

 

“Well, if you end up living on the streets, I’ll make you soup and Henry will decorate your cardboard box,” Emma says. “Calm down, Regina.”

 

“I should never have done it. I’ve always said six more months.”

 

“Deep breaths.”

 

She pauses. She’s being ridiculous, she knows, but the anxiety – it’s been three days – keeps welling up inside of her. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m just–“

 

“I know,” Emma says. “I’ll see you tomorrow before band.”

 

After classes are over for the day, Regina returns to the apartment. She couldn’t concentrate in class; she’ll have to ask someone for the notes later. The door’s unlocked, Belle home already, but she’s not alone. Her mother is sitting across from Belle at the table, dressed in her usual black, hair pulled back severely and hands resting on her crossed legs.

 

Regina throws her coat and scarf over the piano stool and kicks off her boots. “Mother, what are you doing here?”

 

“We need to talk,” her mother says. “Belle, dear, would you give us some space?”

 

Belle stands, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. “I’ll be in my room, Regina. Knock if you need me.”

 

“Tea?” Regina asks and her mother nods. She boils the kettle, pouring hot water over two Earl Grey tea bags, watching the brown spiral and seep into the hot water, heart pounding and shoulders shaking. By the time the tea is properly steeped (her mother being picky about how her tea is brewed) she has calmed herself down enough to face her mother. She drizzles milk into each, removes the tea bags and hands one mug to her mother.

 

“Why are you here?” she asks, sitting across from her mother, clutching the mug for warmth.

 

“To see you,” her mother says. “Regina, you’ve been keeping things from me, but I’ve been keeping something from you. You may have guessed already but I’m not well. My heart… Well, suffice it to say, I won’t be around to see you graduate from law school.”

 

Regina stares at her. “I don’t believe you.”

 

Her mother’s eyes flash with anger for just one moment. “Do you want my medical notes? To talk to my doctor? I think you know I’m telling the truth.”

 

There’s this hollowness, this aching inside Regina that she hasn’t felt since her father’s death in a car accident when she was fifteen. Her heart twinges and she gulps at the lump that has formed in her throat. She clenches her jaw, willing away her emotions. “I don’t know what you want me to say."

 

“Nothing, dear. I don’t wish to talk about it.” Her mother sips her tea, takes an appraising look around the room, rubs a finger along the window frame as though inspecting for dust. “I also don’t want to spend the last years of my life fighting with my only child. I’ve had some time to think about what you said at dinner. While I don’t appreciate the scene you caused in front of my closest friends, I shouldn’t have been pushing you.” She pauses, takes a long draft of tea, and reaches out a hand, cupping Regina’s cheek. “I just want you to be happy.”

 

“I am happy, Mother,” Regina says, voice stiff. It’s too easy, her mind screams. Don’t let her in.

 

“Good. I would rather we not discuss your proclivities –“ her lip curls in spite of her kind words “–beyond today but I will not put any more pressure on you to be something that you feel you are not.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Who is the girl?” Cora asks.

 

“Who says there is a girl?”

 

“Oh, my dear, you never would have spoken up if you weren’t in love.” Regina would like to protest, to say that of course this isn’t true, but in that private, cowardly part of herself she wonders how long she would have continued to closet herself if Emma hadn’t appeared in her life.

 

“We’re not in love,” she settles on saying.

 

“Not _yet_ , perhaps,” her mother says. “I know you, Regina. You don’t give your heart easily, but when you do…”

 

“Her name is Emma,” Regina says because this talk of love is terrifying her. “She plays the trumpet.”

 

“I will do my best to be happy for you,” her mother says. She drains her mug. “Now, I have a hospital appointment shortly so I should get going.”

 

Regina says goodbye to her mother, a strange mixture of grief and elation bubbling up inside of her. Belle obviously hears the door close and enters the living room. “How was that?”

 

“I don’t know,” Regina says. “She’s dying.” She feels empty, sipping her tea for something to do with her hands.

 

“What?” Belle says. “Oh, honey.”

 

“But she’s willing to tolerate me,” she says. “I don’t have to hide anymore.” Tolerance is not the same as acceptance, Regina knows this, but it’s a far cry from being disowned and despised. And she cries, still clutching her mug, Belle rubbing her back and making soothing noises.

 

She brings enchiladas to Emma’s for dinner the next day and Emma meets her at the door, setting the enchiladas down on the arm of the couch, where Henry pokes at the tinfoil suspiciously, and enveloping her in a hug. “I’m so sorry,” she says. She knows about Regina’s mother; Regina sent her a text yesterday, words being too hard.

 

“Thank you,” Regina whispers. Henry, having inspected the enchiladas and found them acceptable, toddles over and wraps his arms around her legs.

 

“Regina’s a bit tired, kid,” Emma says. “So no horses or dancing or anything.” Henry’s happy to sit on Regina’s lap while the enchiladas cook and tell her stories about his day.

 

“You don’t have to go to band tonight, not if you don’t want to,” Emma says, as they eat. “I’ll let Gold know.”

 

“No,” she says. “I need to keep busy.” She had spent the day at home, desperately searching for something to do, some way to keep herself occupied. Mostly she’d played the piano and cried. Her relationship with her mother is difficult (to say the least) but she’s her mother. Regina loves her.

 

They’re practising Christmas carols because the concert is in two weeks and Regina’s blackly amused by the distaste on Gold’s face as he conducts them through ‘Jingle Bells’. The music is straightforward enough but it seems bizarre to be playing festive music at such a time. Regina’s heart’s not in her playing and she hasn’t practised in several days. She knows her tonguing is sloppy and she’s fudging her fingering in places but she can’t bring herself to care. On days like this she wonders what point there is having the clarinets play at all when they’re just going to be drowned out by the brass section.

 

She remains in her seat during the break, fiddling with keys on her clarinet for something to do with her hands, and Emma sits down beside her. “How are you holding up?”

 

“I’m fine,” she lies. “God, I hate this.” It’s loud in the rehearsal space; after two weeks apart everyone’s chatty. The noise echoes.

 

“I know, right? Carols and it’s barely gone Thanksgiving,” Emma says. “Henry’s been begging to put the Christmas music on since July.”

 

“Not that,” Regina says, voice snappier than she’d like. It’s too loud. She can’t breathe in the noise and disorder.

 

“I know,” Emma says. “Sorry.” She leans into her, feels Emma’s arm shift around her and, whatever else she’s feeling, it’s wonderful not to have to second guess herself or worry about what people might think on that score.

 

“Let’s get on with it,” Gold says. “Get out ‘Galop’.” As people settle into their seats he approaches her. “Ms Mills, are you well?”

 

“Fine,” she says.

 

“Your mother has informed me of her health problems,” he says. “My condolences. I quite understand if you need to take a break.”

 

“I said I’m fine,” she says between gritted teeth. So her mother can tell Gold at the same time as she tells her daughter because God knows, Regina’s not any more an important part of her life. It’s at moments like this where she grants more credence to the rumours that her mother and Gold were lovers when he accompanied her mother as an opera singer in Europe – in a time before she married her father and settled down in Storybrooke to be the perfect, controlling Stepford wife.

 

Rehearsals continue and it’s nearing nine o’clock when the man enters the room and takes a seat in one of the chairs at the back of the room. He’s tall, with a craggy face and large dark eyes. He’s dressed like a hipster, in skinny jeans and a waistcoat that does a poor job of disguising the slight thickening of his waist that proves he’s not a young man anymore, whatever his clothes might suggest.

 

Gold stops them, frustrated by the interruption of the slamming door. Regina looks over at Emma – and how wonderful it is not to have to worry about Emma or anyone else noticing Regina stare – and sees that Emma’s gone white as ash. Her trumpet starts to slip from her hands and, in catching it, she knocks her sheet music to the floor. She scrambles to pick it up, hands shaking.

 

“Ah, Neal,” Gold says, his whole face softening into a smile. Regina bites the inside of her cheek to stop the exclamation of horror from escaping her. “This is my son. He was our lead trumpet player before he aged out of the band.” Killian raises a hand in recognition and Victor nods in his direction. “We’ll finish up there. One more practise before the Christmas concert.”

 

Regina packs her clarinet up as quickly as possible, deciding she’ll run the silk cleaning swab through the pieces later, chipping her reed in her haste to put it back in its holder. But then Ashley waylays her with a question about one of the carols and by the time she’s answered it, Emma’s disappeared. She scans the room anxiously.

 

“Did you see where Emma went?” she asks Belle, who’s waiting with Ruby, who’s waxing the cork joints of her saxophone. “I’m her ride.”

 

“I think she’s already outside,” Belle says. “See you tomorrow, yeah? I think I’m going to Ruby’s tonight.” Ruby nudges her. “Okay, definitely going to Ruby’s.”

 

She leaves the rehearsal space and when passing Gold’s office, she hears raised voices.

 

“I think we’ve got plenty to catch up on, Em.”

 

“ _Don’t_ call me that,” she says. “I have nothing to say to you.”

 

“Sure about that?”

 

Regina bursts in. “I think your father is looking for you,” she says to Neal, voice cold. She places a hand on Emma’s waist, fingers keeping a firm grip on her side, trying to calm Emma whose fists are clenched tight and is eying up her trumpet case as though it could function as a possible murder weapon.

 

He raises an eyebrow. “This your guard dog?” he asks Emma, who snarls at him.

 

“Get fucked.”

 

“Coffee tomorrow, five thirty,” he says. “You know where.”

 

Emma manages to hold it together until they reach Regina’s car. It’s when she’s in the front seat that she starts crying, deep, gulping sobs, and can’t stop. Regina feels helpless, unable to comfort her with both hands on the wheel.

 

She pulls over, parking her car just down the road from a Starbucks. “Come on,” Regina says briskly. “We’re getting hot chocolate. Nothing is so bad it can’t be fixed by chocolate.”

 

Emma gulps. “Okay, Professor Lupin,” she says.

 

Over too-sweet hot chocolate in one corner of the empty Starbucks (the girl behind the counter scowled when Regina ordered so Regina glowered back and terrified her), Emma talks. “He knew I was in the band. He came there to see me. He must know about Henry. He must want to take him from me.” Her voice rises in pitch, edging on hysteria, and Regina can only hold both of her hands.

 

But why now? She knows as well as everyone in the band that Gold’s relationship with his son is tempestuous, Neal barely speaking with his father and preferring the company of his mother, who lives in Seattle. And Gold doesn’t know about Henry because if he did there’s no way he’d let that rest. With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Regina works it out. “I don’t know how she’s done it but this stinks of my mother,” she says.

 

“Your mother doesn’t even know Neal,” Emma says.

 

“No,” Regina says. “But she knows Gold and Gold knows you used to date Neal. She’s putting the puzzle pieces together. She has this guy, Sidney, he’s the editor of the Storybrooke paper. She’ll have had him dig into your past.”

 

“How does she even know about me?”

 

“I told her your first name,” Regina says. “And she met you at the concert. That scheming, manipulative…” She breaks off. “God, I’m so sorry, Emma.”

 

“I just – I don’t even know her. Why would she do this?”

 

“Because she’s evil,” Regina says. It’s a genius ploy on her mother’s behalf. Either Emma gets totally screwed up because of the Neal situation and runs, or she blames Regina.

 

She drops Emma at home, goes back to her apartment and calls her mother. She leaves a message. “I hope you know that this will never be forgiven, Mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the continued amazing support of this story.


	14. Tranquillo

Emma cups her hands around a mug of steaming coffee at the coffee shop around the corner from her old high school, wishing it was something stronger. She hasn’t been here for over three years but looks exactly the same, down to the faded artworks on the walls that just look like paint splotched at random on a canvas to Emma, the sort of thing Henry could (and often does) create. It’s where she and Neal used to go after her trumpet lessons. She’d skip last period algebra and they’d sit here and drink cheap coffee and she’d feel so mature and cultured, talking about music and art and their own shitty lives.

 

Now she just feels very young and very, very naïve.

 

He’s ten minutes late. She’ll give him another five and then go home to her son.

 

He didn’t mention Henry yesterday but she just knows that Neal knows about him. Today’s meeting is about Henry. Neal doesn’t care about them; he made that abundantly clear three years ago. She also knows that Neal won’t come out with whatever he wants immediately. He’s not a great communicator, unless he’s changed dramatically in their time apart.

 

She’s about to give up and leave when the doors swing open and Neal enters. She watches him from her corner as he orders at the counter, pulling off his gloves and scarf, flirting in that casual way he does with the girl at the register, all ease and good humour. It had charmed her back then.

 

“Em,” he says, settling down in front of her, coffee in hand and shucking off his coat over the back of the chair. “How are you?”

 

“All the better for seeing you,” she says, sarcasm dripping from her words. “And don’t call me that.”

 

“Can’t believe this place is still up and running,” he says, looking around at the shabby interior. “Some good times were had here.”

 

“What do you want, Neal?” she says. She’s so tired. She barely slept last night and, when she did, she was plagued by nightmares of Neal, coming back and stealing Henry. Leroy took one look at the dark circles under her eyes and tried to send her home this morning but she convinced him she was okay. She did snap at a nine-year-old during his trumpet lesson this afternoon, which was not exactly her proudest teaching moment.

 

“Just thought it’d be nice to catch up,” he says and she stands to leave, knotting her scarf around her neck. “Sorry, my bad,” he says, hands in the air as though surrendering. “Sit down.”

 

She sits back down. “Get to the point.”

 

“Why did you keep it?” he asks.

 

“Do I really have to explain myself to the man who gave me a bunch of cash for an abortion and then fucked off to Arizona?”

 

Neal looks at her, those big, puppy dog eyes reminding her of Henry when he really wants something, like an ice cream sundae or another story before bed. The fact that she can see Henry in Neal infuriates her. “I guess not,” he says, shrugging.

 

“Henry’s my son,” she says. “I will not have you coming in and screwing everything up.”

 

“He’s called Henry?” he asks, taking a sip of coffee.

 

She named him after a character in a book a social worker gave her when she was a kid, the first book she’d ever owned. She’d loved it, reading it over and over again, despite the dog-eared pages and old-fashioned cover art. Henry Huggins was no-nonsense and patient and had a whole community of love and support around him and all the issues he had to deal with were small and easily resolved. “What of it?”

 

“Cute name,” Neal says. “A bit old school.”

 

“Fuck you,” Emma says, voice even, and a teenager sitting near them looks over and giggles shrilly.

 

“Look, Emma, this goes both ways. If you don’t want me to be in his life, you can’t then come after me for money, can you?”

 

Emma lets out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding. “Is that what you’re worried about? Is that what this whole thing is about? Shit, Neal.”

 

Neal looks sheepish. “Look, if the kid wants to meet me when he’s older, I won’t say no but I’m not going to pretend that I’m all that interested.” He may be nearing thirty but he’s such a child, Emma realises, with the same selfish, childish wants. Freedom from responsibility, consequences… She imagines that if they’d stayed together she wouldn’t like the person she became much.

 

“Then why see me now?”

 

He just looks at her like she’s crazy. “I got this call, some lady, saying she was your lawyer. She said you were planning to sue for child support.”

 

“I don’t have a lawyer,” she says, her mind ticking over. Regina’s words from last night echo in her mind, her insistence that her mother is involved somehow. She thought it was crazy last night but now she’s not so sure.

 

“Someone’s fucking with you, Em.”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

They sit in silence for a moment; the only noise is that of the coffee machine and the grumble of conversation from the teenagers at the nearest table. “Anything else?” Emma asks and drains her coffee. “Only I really should get home to _my_ son.”

 

“Are you happy?” Neal asks.

 

“What?”

 

“You heard me.” He looks at her, meeting her eyes.

 

She stands, pushing her chair in at the table, ramming her hat back on and pulling her arms through the sleeves of her jacket. “Yeah,” she says and in her mind she sees Henry and Regina. She doesn’t know what to do with that image, pushes it to the back of her mind.

 

“Good,” he says. “You deserve to be.”

 

“Good bye, Neal,” she says and there’s a note of finality in her voice. It’s over. She doesn’t need to be afraid anymore.

 

She’s exhausted when she finally parks outside her apartment block, doing the worst parallel park she’s attempted in a while but not bothering to care. Rush hour traffic in downtown Boston was particularly painful that night. She’d had Mary Margaret pick Henry up from day care and bring him back to Emma’s apartment and when she arrives home Henry’s door is shut and Mary Margaret’s grading test papers at the table, a block of chocolate open beside her.

 

“Hey,” Emma says, shutting the door softly, kicking off her boots and removing her outer layers. “Henry okay?”

 

“A bit unsettled,” she says, swivelling. “He missed you. But he’s asleep now.”

 

“I guess I can expect him up later then,” she says, sneaking a square of chocolate. When she’s not there to put him to bed he wakes up in the night. She knows it’s a habit she’ll need to break him of eventually but she kind of likes that her kid misses her when she’s not there and tonight, of all nights, she’ll probably need his comfort more than he needs hers.

 

“How was it?” Mary Margaret asks. Emma told her the bones of the story when she called that morning in a panic, needing to find someone to look after Henry.

 

“Draining,” she says. “I don’t really want to talk about it. But it’s over. He’s not interested in Henry.”

 

“Best possible outcome, right?”

 

“I guess,” Emma says, though how someone could not be interested in Henry is beyond her. “Yeah.” She sinks onto the couch, body aching. “Regina told me about your story with her. Apparently, you aren’t the only person Cora Mills can manipulate so I’m feeling slightly less perturbed about it than I was.”

 

Mary Margaret sighs. “God, I hoped you’d never find out about that. Not my finest hour. Mrs Mills was an incredibly persuasive woman when I was a teenager and I was such an idiot.”

 

“I can’t believe Regina had a crush on you,” Emma says. It’s not that Mary Margaret isn’t beautiful; she is all big doe eyes and delicate features. But she’s soft and naïve and believes in one true loves and soul mates – concepts that make Emma want to hurl.

 

“Hey, I was a badass at high school, did archery and everything. Regina was this totally gorgeous kid,” Mary Margaret says. She rests her chin on her hands and smiles fondly, dimples creasing into her cheeks. “She’s kind of hard now but when she was sixteen she was scrappy and fierce and open, in spite of her mother expecting her to be, like, this perfect lady. She idolised me and Kathryn.”

 

Emma tries to imagine a teenaged Regina. Though they’re only barely in their twenties the idea is incomprehensible. However, from what Mary Margaret has to say, she thinks she might have seen a glimpse of her when she finally defied her mother and took charge of her life. “I’m sure that was excellent for your egos.”

 

Mary Margaret laughs. “We were terrible. I was so sure that everyone in the world felt the same as I did. I banked Regina’s life on it.”

 

“Have you ever talked to her about it?”

 

“Maybe one day,” Mary Margaret says, wistful. “She broke my nose. Did she tell you that?” She points to a bump on the bridge of her nose; it’s slight and Emma’s never noticed it before.

 

Emma snorts. “No.” She can’t imagine Regina swinging a punch.

 

“She claimed it was an accident; it’s what stopped her from being suspended. But no one picks up a music stand and swings it with that much force accidentally, particularly not two days after their crush outs them to their mother.”

 

“You probably deserved it,” Emma says, lips quirking.

 

“That’s why I didn’t tell anyone that it wasn’t an accident,” Mary Margaret says, fingers playing across the tiny bump. “My nose healed.”

 

“I think Regina’s starting to heal now too.”

 

“Good.” Mary Margaret stares contemplatively at her for a moment. “You know, I didn’t like the idea of you and her at first. I thought she’d hurt you. But you’re making each other better. The Emma I met a year ago would have skipped town completely if Neal had tried to come back into her life.”

 

Emma smiles tremulously. “Thank you.”

 

“I love you, Emma.” Mary Margaret moves to sit beside her, wraps her arms around her and finally Emma cries, not the frantic sobs of last night, but silent tears that speak to the exhaustion she feels in every pore of her body.

 

When Mary Margaret leaves, Emma reheats leftovers, grabs a couple of beers and fires up her laptop. It doesn’t take long for her to do a little digging, make a few calls and, finally, find Cora Mills’ phone number.

 

“Cora Mills speaking.” The voice at the end of the line is cool and crisp. It’s late, probably later than anyone in polite society should call anyone but Emma’s not polite society.

 

“Hi,” Emma says. “This is Emma Swan.”

 

“Can I help you, Ms Swan?” Cora’s voice stays in the same modulated tone. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think that we are acquainted.”

 

“Great start,” Emma says. “All lies, of course, but great. I’m just calling to let you know that your plan failed. You know, in case you want to start plotting against me again.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“You looked into my past, which means you know I have a history of running away – from foster homes, landlords, jobs, school… I imagine Mary Margaret’s father could tell you how much I love my boy because she tells her dad everything. It would have been easy to find out who Henry’s father if you were able to get to his birth certificate. Stop me if I’m getting any of this wrong.”

 

Silence on the other end of the phone. She can hear the woman’s quiet breathing.

 

“It wasn’t your most well-considered plan,” Emma says. “Too many variables. Will Emma run? Will Regina work it all out? Will Neal actually want to meet his child? I’m sure you’ve done better in the past but then, you do have that arrhythmia to consider. Can’t put too much stress on the old ticker.”

 

“I never told Regina what my condition was,” Cora says and for the first time there’s a tremor in her voice.

 

“Didn’t you? My mistake,” Emma says. She works for a bail bondsman. She knows private investigators. It was so very easy to call in a favour short notice, especially when one of those PIs used to work in a hospital. “Here’s my advice, lady: stay the hell away from my son.”

 

“Good bye Ms Swan.” The line goes dead. Shaking, Emma drops her phone on the sofa and sculls the rest of her second beer.

 

Moments later, the door to Henry’s bedroom opens and he ambles out, rubbing his eyes with his fists and screwing up his face in the harsh light of the living room. “Bad dream, Mama,” he says and she picks him up, holds him close to her, feels the quick patter of his heart against her own body.

 

“I love you so, so much, kid,” she whispers in his ear.

 

He squirms. “Too tight.” She loosens her grip, stroking his hair, which calms her trembling hands.

 

“Were you good for Mary Margaret?” she asks.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Mostly. She tried to make me eat broccoli though.” He scowls.

 

“The villain,” Emma says, feigning a gasp and clutching a hand to her heart. “You know, I try to make you eat broccoli as well.” She feels better with her boy in her arms and everything (she hopes) taken care of. At peace, calm, everything right with the world.

 

“Mama,” he says, looking up at her seriously. “Is Regina your girlfriend?”

 

Emma laughs. “Where did you get that idea?”

 

“Because she comes over here and I saw you kissing her one time in the kitchen.” Emma blushes, the memory from a week or so ago of pressing Regina up against the fridge, curling her hands through her hair, Regina’s hand clutching at her ass, still very much present in her mind. She really hopes Henry came in as they were breaking apart, not in the midst of it all.

 

“Would you like it if she was my girlfriend?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, his voice blurry with sleep and snuggling into her side. “She’s real pretty and nice.”

 

“She is, isn’t she?” Emma says. “Come on, buddy. Let’s get you back into bed.” Henry wraps his arms around her neck and she carries him back to his room.

 

It’s late so she sends Regina a text instead of immediately calling like she wants to. _Henry wants you to be my girlfriend._

 

The reply comes seconds later. _Do you?_

 

So Emma calls her. “Yes,” she says.

 

“Okay then,” Regina replies and Emma can tell that she’s smiling.

 

“Before you commit to anything, I did something possibly quite stupid,” Emma admits.

 

“Shocking,” Regina says, sarcastic.

 

“I may have threatened your mother,” Emma says. She tells the whole story, from her meeting with Neal to calling Cora. She leaves the conversation with Mary Margaret for another time.

 

Regina is silent for an alarmingly long time. “Can I call you back?” she asks.

 

Five minutes later, Emma washing dishes in an effort to alleviate her nerves, Regina calls back. “Open your door.”

 

Emma runs to the door and opens it. Regina’s standing in the hallway, no coat, wearing leggings, a hideous woollen sweater that reaches to her knees and what appear to be slippers. “How did you get into the building?” Emma asks, but then sees one of the men from down the hall unlocking his door. He smirks at her and Emma shoos him away with her hand.

 

“You idiot,” Regina replies, and kisses her. Emma sighs into her mouth, feeling as though everything is right with the world. Her hands find Regina’s waist, pulling her closer, their bodies pressing together, demanding, warm.

 

“Are you angry?” she asks, still holding Regina tight.

 

“Furious,” she says. “And proud. People don’t mess with my mother.”

 

“Apparently I do,” Emma says.

 

“As in everything, you are the exception,” Regina says, rolling her eyes.

 

“Stay here tonight.”

 

“I’ll have to run out on you in the morning,” Regina says, wriggling out from Emma’s arms. “And borrow some clothes to wear to class. I hope you realise what a sacrifice that will be, what with your appalling fashion sense.”

 

“Honey,” Emma says. “Have you seen yourself?”

 

Regina looks down at her outfit and grins. “Well, we’ll just have to do something about this, won’t we?” and she saunters towards Emma’s bedroom, pulling off her sweater as she goes. Emma shuts the front door and follows her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're entering the homestretch now. I hope you enjoy.  
> Cora's machinations run deep but Emma gets her moment of triumph over her like Regina did a few chapters back.


	15. Con Abbandono

 

Regina is distracted from putting together her clarinet at the Christmas concert by hands around her waist. “Emma,” she murmurs. “Busy,” though she presses back into Emma’s body anyway.

 

Emma kisses her neck. “Okay,” she says. “One kiss first, thank you please.”

 

Regina turns and presses her lips against Emma’s, huffs at the intrusion of Emma’s hand edging towards her butt. “There are people around,” she says, feigning a fear of scandal and pushing her away. Emma holds tight and Regina fights the insane urge to, like, giggle or blush or something equally pathetic and embarrassing.

 

Belle snorts from her spot next to Regina. “Didn’t stop you in our kitchen on Wednesday,” she says, just a little bit too loudly and Regina’s reminded of Emma dropping by before picking Henry up from day care. Regina had put the kettle on and looked up to see Emma move towards her, a glint in her eye and predatory smile on her face. Belle had walked in to find Regina sitting on the kitchen counter, legs wrapped around Emma’s body and her shirt unbuttoned as Emma kissed and licked at her collar bone.

 

“We’ll uninvite you from Christmas, French,” Emma says, and Belle throws her cleaning swab at Emma, who pulls a face. “Ew, Australian spit,” she says, throwing it back.

 

“Go and warm up,” Regina says, wriggling out of Emma’s grip and shoving her back towards the corner where the brass section is getting warmed up.

 

“But they’re all boys and they’re so _boring_ ,” she grizzles, attempting Henry’s puppy dog face, which is considerably more effective on a two and a half year old.

 

“As the concert master, you need to do as I say.”

 

“Sexy,” Ruby says as she passes by on her way to the other saxophones, case in hand, and Regina fights a blush.

 

Finally, Emma leaves, though not before saying loudly, “we’ll role play that one later, Angel Cakes.”

 

Regina feels her whole body go red at that and Belle snickers. “Shut up,” she says, straightening her dress, which Emma has crumpled, and patting her hair.

 

“I didn’t say anything,” Belle says, adjusting her reed and tightening the screws on the ligature, her eyes narrowed, tongue poking out of her mouth just slightly as she fine-tunes it. “Hey, has Gold given out the order of music yet?”

 

Regina passes her the slip of paper from her folder and Belle places her clarinet carefully on her coat and files through her sheet music, putting it in the right order for performance. “Line up, people,” Gold calls over the general cacophony of the backstage space. Regina takes her place at the front of the line, the clarinets falling into place behind her. She takes a deep breath and they file out onto the stage.

 

She takes a seat, opening her folder to the ‘Chicago’ medley, fingers absently flicking across the keys of her clarinet. The church where the concert is being held is large, its auditorium full. She spots Henry in the front row, with Emma’s neighbour, Ari, and her daughter. Henry’s jiggling in his seat with excitement and he waves when he sees Regina. She smiles and waves back. Then she looks over at Emma who is waving at Henry herself.

 

Gold moves to the podium. Archie plays the tuning note. ‘Chicago’ begins with Emma and Regina takes a moment to appreciate her, standing tall, one hand shifting the mute as she plays. She’s pulled her blonde curls back from her face with a clasp and her cheeks flush pink with the effort of playing. She’s beautiful, strong and proud. Regina shakes her head and returns her focus to the music.

 

They sound good, better than they did at the Storybrooke concert, and Regina can’t help but smile at the conclusion of the medley. They play a few more of their tried and true numbers – ‘Danny Boy’, ‘In the Mood’ and ‘Cantina Band’ among them – and then Regina’s up to do ‘Rhapsody in Blue’.

 

Henry squeals when her name is called and she clenches and loosens the hand not holding her clarinet, taking several breaths. Gold nods to her and she starts. She doesn’t need the sheet music, even though it’s in front of her, and she closes her eyes to play, body swaying to the music, feet planted firmly apart, knees bent.

 

“Well done, dearie,” Gold whispers to her when she finishes and she smiles, the warmth of praise spreading across her. Gold _never_ compliments anyone without some sort of critique to follow. Graham gives her the thumbs up and Emma is beaming.

 

The second half of the programme is Christmas songs and Mary Margaret, David and Ruby alternate in leading the sing-along, the audience joining in with great enthusiasm. She sees Henry singing loudly and, she suspects, not tunefully in the front row.

 

They mingle afterwards. There’s food and non-alcoholic drinks put on in one of the rooms of the church and, since it’s the last time the band will be together until the new year, everyone is sentimental and gushing. Regina finds Emma, who is holding an exhausted Henry on her hip and chatting with Ari, and wraps an arm around her waist. “Hey you,” she says, pressing a soft kiss to Emma’s cheek and giving Henry a sleepy high five.

 

“Hey,” Emma says, grin spreading from ear to ear. “You’ve met Ari, yeah?”

 

“Yes, hello,” Regina says and, bending down, adds, “and you must be Melody? Hi.” The dark haired girl giggles and hides her face in her mother’s leg.

 

“She’s shy,” Ari says, stroking her daughter’s hair. “I was just saying, great job with the concert. We loved it.”

 

“Thank you,” Regina says. She scans the crowd. Graham’s over with his parents in one corner and Ruby’s introducing Belle to the formidable Granny Lucas. Regina’s met her once before; her handshake nearly broke her fingers. She sees Belle is getting the same treatment, judging by the grimace that crosses her face. “Want a drink, Sugar Pie?” Emma glares daggers at her but nods.

 

She wanders over to the refreshments table, hearing Ari say, “Sugar Pie?” with some incredulous delight. Payback is delightful. She bumps into Gold, making himself a cup of tea.

 

“Good work today, Ms Mills,” he says, pouring milk into the cup and stirring.

 

She grabs a couple of polystyrene cups of juice and says, “thanks.”

 

“Did you see your mother?”

 

Regina freezes. “No.”

 

“What a pity. I think she just left,” he says. “She asked me to pass on her congratulations in case she missed you. A fine solo, I believe she said.”

 

Regina purses her lips. Does her mother regret what she did or is it another twist of the knife? Another reminder that she will always hold some power over Regina? She returns to Emma with the juice. “Here you go,” she says.

 

“Thanks, Petal,” Emma replies, draining the polystyrene cup in one gulp, but she frowns when she sees Regina’s face. “You okay?”

 

“I’ve been better,” she says, noting Ari’s curious look. “I’ll tell you later.”

 

When they’ve got Henry home and are curled up on the sofa, contemplating dinner, Regina tells Emma. “My mother was at the concert.”

 

Emma holds her close, arms wrapped around her waist as she leans against Emma, breathing in her scent, cinnamon and the lavender shampoo she uses. “You’re allowed to miss her,” she says.

 

“I shouldn’t though,” she says. “I shouldn’t miss her and I shouldn’t love her.”

 

“I don’t think there’s any should or shouldn’t in love,” Emma says, thoughtful.

 

She’s right, Regina knows it. There’s no logic to love. There should be but there isn’t. She loves her mother. She always will. She can’t forgive her, not yet, perhaps not ever, but she still loves her. She twists around and kisses Emma, who responds enthusiastically.

 

It’s busy in the lead-up to Christmas. Regina has assignments due, Emma’s working extra shifts at the bakery and has picked up some work wrapping Christmas presents at a nearby mall. While Regina spends as many free moments with Emma, it’s not until Christmas Eve that they really get a chance to just relax together. Regina’s invited her and Henry around for Christmas; Belle’s not going home to Australia and so they’ve planned an ‘orphans’ dinner. Ruby’s promised to drop by in the morning before going to her Granny’s and Emma has insisted she allow Mary Margaret and David to visit on their way to Maine. “She’s my best friend,” Emma had said. “I want to see her on Christmas.”

 

“Fine,” Regina had replied. “Don’t expect me to talk to her though.”

 

Emma and Henry come over on Christmas Eve after dinner. Regina’s set up a camp bed for Henry in her room and they sit around the tree and listen to Christmas music and drink eggnog. Regina got to decorate a Christmas tree herself for the first time ever, no colour schemes or Mother standing over her shoulder to criticise, and she relished in multitudes of clashing colours. Henry conks out on the sofa at eight o’clock and Emma picks him up, carrying him into Regina’s bedroom.

 

The eggnog has made Regina tipsy and affectionate and she sits in the V of Emma’s legs, hands lightly stroking Emma’s thighs. “Can you be less sickeningly cute?” Belle asks.

 

“Can you stop sexting Ruby?” Regina replies because Belle keeps giggling and blushing and it’s pretty freaking obvious.

 

Emma’s drawing spirals on Regina’s back with her fingertips and she rolls her eyes at both of them. “Stop fighting, Mom and Dad,” she says. “It’s nearly Christmas.”

 

Belle yawns and stretches. “I’m off to bed. See you in the morning.”

 

“Bright and early,” Emma says, grinning.

 

Regina watches the lights gleam on the Christmas tree, aware of the hand that has now moved to stroking her hair. “It’s a pity Henry’s sleeping in your room,” Emma says conversationally. “You look really pretty and I just kind of want to touch you everywhere.”

 

“Tomorrow,” Regina says, though her heart pounds. She trails her hand up Emma’s thigh, feeling the muscles beneath contract. “We’ll stay at yours tomorrow.”

 

“Ugh, fine,” Emma says. “We could still cuddle though.”

 

Regina grins and stands up, pulling Emma with her. “Yeah, we could do that.”

 

They’re woken at dawn by Henry leaping onto Regina’s bed and sprawling across both of them. Emma held her as they slept and they’ve woken up in a tangle of limbs. Regina’s arm has fallen asleep and she watches Henry push his mother’s hair back from her face and pull her eyelids up. “Christmas!” he yells.

 

“Great,” Emma mumbles. “Happy Christmas, buddy.” Regina nudges her. “Happy Christmas to you too, Regina.”

 

“Thank you, dear,” Regina says, wriggling until she’s tighter into Emma’s embrace. Henry giggles as her body moves, shaking him like an earthquake.

 

“Santa came,” he says and, sighing, Emma turns, stretches and sits up, rubbing her eyes.

 

“You want me to get up?” she asks.

 

“Can’t open presents until you’re up,” Henry says. It’s a rule Emma stated several times yesterday, reminding Henry as he spiralled out on sugar and Christmas cheer. Emma grabs her hoodie from the floor by the bed and Regina pulls on a dressing gown.

 

“You can sleep a bit longer,” Emma says.

 

“No way am I missing this,” Regina says and Emma grins. She puts on the coffee and brings two steaming mugs into the living room. Henry’s on the floor with his stocking, overflowing with little gifts, waiting for her and Emma has her phone in one hand, ready to take photos. They’ll do the proper presents after breakfast but Henry needs some positive incentive to wait that long.

 

“Have at it,” Emma says and the floor beside Henry quickly becomes strewn with wrapping paper.

 

Belle emerges at some stage, hair sticking up around her face and eyeliner smudged around her eyes, and Regina wordlessly hands her a coffee. She contemplates showering and dressing but, honestly, she’s enjoying her pyjamas.

 

Soon Regina’s vaguely considering putting breakfast together, Emma’s in the shower and Belle and Henry are playing with a set of finger puppets Santa left him. There’s a knock at the door and Regina answers it. “David, Mary Margaret,” she says, attempting enthusiasm though her smile feels tight.

 

David grins. “Merry Christmas, Reggie.” Regina shoots him a look that is meant to suggest that she will pull his heart out of his chest and crush it to dust in front of his weeping family but he just grins more widely, which is unfortunate.

 

“Come in,” she says, reluctant.

 

Emma arrives at that moment, towelling her hair dry. She envelops both into a hug. “Merry Christmas, guys.”

 

“We’ve just been at the morning service,” Mary Margaret says. “We’re heading to Dad’s shortly. We won’t stay long.” She shoots Regina an apologetic look. “There’s gifts.”

 

Henry hears the word ‘gift’ and looks up. “Merry Christmas,” he says, toddling over and hugging them both. David pats his head and Mary Margaret bends down to kiss his forehead. “Presents?”

 

“Henry!” Emma exclaims. “Not how we behave.”

 

“Sorry,” he says, looking at her with such a woebegone expression Regina has to stifle a laugh in the sleeve of her dressing gown. “Presents, thank you please?”

 

“I’m going to shower,” Regina decides, the presence of Mary Margaret making her uncomfortable. She takes her time, blow drying her hair straight and perfecting her make-up. By the time she returns, they’re gone.

 

“Mary Margaret left this for you,” Emma says, handing her a small parcel. It’s a book – a copy of ‘Sense and Sensibility’, red leather hard back with beautiful gold lettering on the cover. Mary Margaret had lent her the novel when she was sixteen and Regina had treasured it, reading it cover to cover several times, enjoying the fact that the book made her closer to the girl she thought she loved. When Mary Margaret had betrayed her, Regina had burnt the book.

 

She opens the cover and a note falls out, two words scrawled on it. _I’m sorry_.

 

Regina considers for a moment. “Emma, can I have Mary Margaret’s number?” Emma doesn’t ask any questions, just passes her phone over and continues making scrambled eggs. Regina scrolls through Emma’s contacts and types her message from her own phone. _Thank you. Regina Mills_.

 

As though drawn by a sixth sense, Ruby arrives as Emma’s plating scrambled eggs, toast and bacon, pours herself the last coffee in the pot and interrupts Belle and Henry’s game to kiss Belle soundly, leading Henry to make a noise of abject disgust and throw his finger puppets at them.

 

It’s after breakfast as Henry hands out presents from under the tree, Emma helping him by reading the labels, that Regina starts to feel homesick. Christmas music is blaring from Belle’s iPod. Regina’s sitting on a footrest, watching the proceedings and when Emma catches her eye, she feels herself well up. “You okay?”

 

“Fine,” she says, drawing in a deep, shuddery breath, willing away the tears. “Any presents under there for me, Henry?”

 

Henry grins and hands her something. “It’s from me _and_ Henry,” Emma says. It’s a pair of earrings, the dangling ornaments made out of old scores. “Henry picked them,” Emma says.

 

“Thank you, Henry,” she says, drawing him close to her and enveloping him in a hug. “They’re beautiful.” She kisses his forehead and he squirms and giggles. She meets Emma’s eye and smiles, heart doing that weird flip-flop thing in her chest as Emma smiles back, lips turned up further on one side. Emma smiles again when she opens Regina’s gift, a red leather jacket.

 

Belle’s reading one of the Harlequin novels Regina got her as a gag gift (it’s called ‘The Italian Billionaire’s Pregnant Mistress’ and it is terrible), snorting occasionally and Ruby’s reading over her shoulder, face contorting in amusement. Then Regina’s phone rings. It shows up as a private number and she answers. “Hello, Regina Mills speaking,” she says as she wanders into her bedroom, shutting the door to mask the noise of chatter and music.

 

“Regina, dear.” It’s her mother.

 

Regina freezes, whole body on the alert. “What do you want?”

 

“I merely want to wish you a happy Christmas,” she says.

 

“Thank you,” she says, voice hard.

 

“I posted your gift last week. It may not arrive until the new year.”

 

Regina nods and then realises that her mother can’t see her. “That’s wasn’t necessary.”

 

“Regina, may I speak?” She takes Regina’s silence as assent. “I have missed you these past weeks.”

 

“You tried to ruin Emma’s life,” Regina says. “I can’t forgive that.”

 

“Ruined her life? So dramatic, dear.”

 

“No,” Regina says. “If you mess with her or her boy, I will do whatever it takes to make you pay.”

 

Her mother is silent for a moment. “My, you have fallen hard, haven’t you?”

 

“I love her,” Regina says fiercely and halts, heart pounding, body tensing up. It’s the first time she’s admitted to it, even to herself.

 

“You could be so much more.” There’s the usual note of criticism in her mother’s voice and Regina has to work hard to block it out.

 

“More than happy?” Regina asks. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

 

“I would like us to mend our relationship,” her mother says.

 

“Not yet,” Regina says. “For now, I need you to leave me alone for a while.” She’ll never be able to trust her mother, not after that betrayal, but she has limited time left with her. She knows that eventually she’ll visit her or allow her to visit Boston, maybe in the new year. But not yet.

 

“Regina…”

 

“Merry Christmas, Mother,” she says, taking care to speak gently, and hangs up.

 

“You love me?” Emma’s standing in the doorway of her bedroom, door shut behind her. Regina hadn’t heard her come in but she’s obviously been there for at least part of the conversation.

 

“It’s rude to eavesdrop, dear,” Regina says, to cover the spiralling nausea coursing through her stomach.

 

Emma’s eyebrows quirk up. “You totally love me,” she says, grinning.

 

Regina scowls. “Yes.” It’s too soon. Emma doesn’t feel the same way, she can’t. Only Regina would be so weird and awkward to fall in love so hard and so quickly.

 

But Emma throws herself on the bed, bouncing and wriggling until her head is resting against Regina’s legs. She looks up at her. “I love you too, you know?”

 

Regina smiles, heart lightening. “I know,” she says, even though she really didn’t until Emma said it.

 

“You can’t Han Solo me,” Emma says. “That’s not fair!”

 

“Who ever said _life_ is _fair_? Where is that written?”

 

Emma sits up and tackles her, pinning her down. “Stop quoting my favourite movies.”

 

“What’ll you do if I don’t?” Regina asks and she really shouldn’t be surprised that Emma’s response is to bite and suck at her neck, hands roaming her body, electric in their touch. “Henry…” she gasps, eyeing the bedroom door.

 

“Is busy playing the recorder for Belle,” Emma says, kissing down her neck and collar bone, hands skirting her breasts, blissful jolts wending their way across her body. “Which, by the way, was a cruel gift. Are you trying to tempt him to the dark side?”

 

“If by that, you mean the clarinet?” Regina says. Emma pulls her dress and bra down so that her breasts are exposed and goes to work on one of them, kissing and licking and nipping, until Regina arches up into Emma’s mouth.

 

“Exactly,” Emma says. “My son will not play a woodwind instrument.”

 

Regina laughs, the sound low and husky. “In that case… Yes, I am definitely trying to make him join the dark side.” Emma shifts, hiking Regina’s dress up to her waist. Her breath feels warm against Regina’s thigh and Regina tugs at her hair. Emma looks up, green eyes hooded and pupils blown. “I love you,” Regina says. “Now, please, do something about this situation before Henry realises we’re both missing.”

 

And then her head falls back because Emma pushes her underwear aside and licks and sucks until Regina’s hands are clutching at her duvet and her legs are clenching around her head and she lets out a strangled moan and comes.

 

She feels sticky and sated, lying on the bed, chest rising and falling slowly, and there’s a knock at the bedroom door. “Uh, hate to interrupt guys,” Belle calls. “But Henry’s about thirty seconds away from barging in if you don’t get out here.”

 

“You can pay me back later, concert master,” Emma says, grinning at Regina and kissing her. Regina tastes herself on Emma’s lips and while she’d ordinarily be a bit horrified by that, because it’s Emma that makes it okay.

 

“I’ll have to,” Regina says, straightening her dress out before she leaves the room so she doesn’t flash Belle and Henry. “Just to prove to you just how skilled clarinettists are at tonguing.” She waggles her tongue and Emma laughs and follows her.

 

Belle gives Regina a look and says, “Emma a vampire?” Regina’s hand flies to her neck and she glares at Emma, who hoots with laughter.

 

When she returns from the bathroom, she makes cocoa because Emma confiscates the recorder, the squeaking drives her mad within about five seconds, and Henry throws a tantrum, which can only be soothed by cocoa with whipped cream and cinnamon. Then Belle plays Christmas carols at the piano and Henry sits beside her, fascinated by the play of long fingers over the keys. Emma sings along, voice soft and tuneful, and Regina cuddles against her, feet up on the couch, and a smile refusing to leave her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, over 10,000 hits. This is ridiculous and thank you so much! The final chapter is an epilogue-type-thing, a time jump and different POV, so I guess this is the end of the story proper but there is that little bit more fluff to come to round it all off. 
> 
> Also, let's be honest, the whole reason I wrote this was so I could make a joke about 'tonguing' and I finally got it in there so I feel like I've succeeded.


	16. Fine

The lights on the stage are hot and Henry can feel the sweat starting to build on his forehead. He clutches his trumpet. He can see Ma in the audience; she’s holding her phone up ready to record, her blonde hair cascading around her shoulders. He can see her hair even from this distance and in the semi-dark auditorium. She gives him the thumbs up and he smiles.

 

Ms Morris, their conductor raises his baton and the auditorium hushes expectantly. Henry stands, raises the trumpet to his lips to plays the opening notes to ‘Summertime’. Ma’s been helping him practise; she used to play it when he was a kid, still does when she’s feeling melancholy (melancholy was one of his spelling words last month and it perfectly describes Ma when she’s in a mood). She had heaps of useful advice, even though they had several fights while he was practising.

 

Loosen up, he thinks, shaking out his limbs. It’s the final concert of the year and Henry’s finally got a solo. After the summer he’ll be at high school and back at the bottom of the peaking order again. This is his chance to shine.

 

The first three notes are shaky, the sound forced. He frowns, takes a deep breath and listens to the beat of the music as the strings start up. Then he loosens his lips, taking the pressure off his mouth piece, and he starts playing the melody. It’s better; it’s good even. He grins when he gets a break in the tune, the orchestra taking over for a moment.

 

The auditorium is full of cheers when he finishes. “Well done, Henry,” Ms Morris mouths, grinning and giving him the thumbs up. She’s his music teacher as well as his conductor and he’ll miss her when he goes to high school next year.

 

He finds Ma in the foyer after the concert and she wraps her arms tight around him. Henry has to shift the trumpet case in his hand to avoid bashing her in the knee with it. “I’m so proud, kid,” she murmurs into his hair.

 

“Where’s Mom?” he asks.

 

“Bathroom,” Ma says. “She’s _always_ in the bathroom.” She sighs dramatically, even though she and Henry both know that the reason Mom’s always in the bathroom is that she’s, like, incredibly pregnant.

 

“I suggest you don’t continue with this line of conversation,” Mom says, coming up behind them and pressing a kiss on Henry’s head. “You played beautifully, dear. The clarinets were a little flat though.”

 

“I know, right?” Henry says and Mom laughs, the sound deep and rich.

 

Regina hasn’t always been his mom. For a long while she was just Ma’s friend Regina and then her girlfriend Regina. She’d come over and play whatever Lego games Henry wanted and let him mess with her hair and ride her around the living room like a horse and read him stories. When he was at kindergarten they moved into an apartment together and became a proper family. The first time he called her ‘Mom’, she cried. She thinks Henry doesn’t know, but he was five, not stupid.

 

“We’ve got to go,” Ma says, checking her phone. Their band has a gig at a coffee shop near the Common and they’re cutting it pretty fine to get there. “You got everything, kiddo?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, waving good bye to Paige and Ava, both violinists. He’s hoping that over the summer his moms might let him get a guitar. He’s heard Paige talk about how much she likes guitar players and he’s going to high school in the fall and the trumpet is not a sexy instrument.

 

Mom’s driving, which means they get there in record time though narrowly avoiding several collisions. Mom and Ma head over to Belle, Ruby and Mulan to set up in the de facto staging area. Ma slips Henry a ten dollar bill. “Get yourself a milkshake, kid,” she whispers. “You deserve it.”

 

Henry orders a shake and a beer claw at the counter and finds Mary Margaret and David, sitting in a corner table, with their two kids. “Henwy!” Ruth cries, banging her hands on the table. Henry picks her up and hugs her, her arms encircling his neck. He’s started babysitting for them occasionally, just during the day, and Ruth _loves_ him. Lance gurgles from his place in his mom’s arms.

 

“Hey, kid,” David says, leaning over to ruffle his hair. “How was the concert?” Henry wouldn’t admit to it under pain of death but he kind of idolises David, who’s a vet and does boxing and is proof that guys can play dorky instruments (like the trumpet or the clarinet) and still be cool.

 

“Awesome,” Henry says, sitting Ruth back down and grabbing a chair from a nearby table. “I aced my solo.”

 

“Emma must be so proud,” Mary Margaret says, smiling. She always smiles. Henry thinks it might be because she’s an elementary school teacher.

 

“Hi,” Ruby says, saxophone dangling from the cord around her neck and hands clasping the microphone. “We’re Regina and the Babes. Hope you enjoy.” The name was a joke, Ma told him, but it stuck. Mom always appears faintly embarrassed by it. They play a weird combination of jazz standards and popular music, sometimes both at the same time like the time they played ‘Call Me Maybe’ to the tune of ‘Moonlight Serenade’. Ruby plays the saxophone and can occasionally be persuaded to sing. Ma’s on the trumpet, Mom plays clarinet, Belle’s on the piano and Mulan plays percussion.

 

They were all in the Boston Youth Symphonic Band together and aged out of it when they were twenty-five. Mom had just starting working for this huge commercial law firm and was doing insane hours and was busy and strained and giving Ma all sorts of grief, so Ma found them a gig at the bakery where she used to work. In the panic of having to rehearse for it, Mom forgot to be stressed about her job.

 

They do pretty well, playing most weekends, sometimes twice, and doing the occasional corporate event. Henry comes along whenever they’re not playing in a bar.

 

“We’ll be starting with a little bit of Glen Miller,” Ruby says. Her lips look really small without her usual startlingly bright lipstick, though she obviously can’t wear it while playing the saxophone. Henry watches them play, letting the music wash over him. Mulan plays percussion precisely, back straight, hair tied back, lips a firm, straight line. Belle’s softer; she plays the keyboard delicately, head bent towards the keys. Henry remembers sitting beside her when he was little, watching her fingers trickle over the keys, trying to imitate her and failing. They have a piano at their house now – Mom insisted – but despite her teaching him the basics, Henry’s never really mastered it.

 

Ruby sways with the saxophone. Of all of them, she’s probably the best musician and actually plays for a proper professional jazz group. His moms took him to see the group play a year ago. It was weird seeing Ruby dressed so professionally; her usual look is painted-on trousers and insanely high heels. Henry had a bit of a crush on her last year, which was super embarrassing because Ma noticed and would _not_ let it go.

 

Mom usually stands to play but Ma’s started forcing her to sit down during concerts, all but tying her to the chair. “You’ll collapse,” she’d said the other night. “It’s bad enough you wear those damn shoes.”

 

“Stop fretting, Emma Swan,” Mom had replied. “You’re such an old woman.” But she’d agreed to the chair, and plays, ankles crossed, clarinet sticking out to avoid her stomach, every movement precise and graceful, like a cat. Ma has always stood close to her during their gigs, one eye on the music and one eye on Mom, but since she got pregnant Ma’s even closer.

 

They switch to something slower. Lance starts to grizzle and Mary Margaret takes him outside, rocking him back and forth as she goes, and he begins to settle almost immediately. Ruth is watching the musicians seriously, sucking on her milkshake through a straw and swinging her little legs from the chair. She obviously feels really grown up being there. Henry can relate; he loved going to see Ma play when he was her age, and even younger, even though he’d usually be asleep in his seat by the end.

 

It’s when they’ve finished their gig and he’s heading down the corridor to the bathroom when he sees them, Ma with her back against the wall, Mom pressed up as close to her as she can get with the belly in the way, their lips clashing. Ma’s hand is clenched in Mom’s hair, pulling her closer, and he doesn’t even want to _think_ about where Mom’s hands are.

 

“Ew,” Henry says. “Get a room.” He catches them like this too often around the house. They’re like teenagers even though they’re super old; Mom turned thirty-two last month.

 

Mom blushes pink but Ma just grins. “Sorry.”

 

“No you’re not,” Henry grouses. “If you were really sorry, you’d stop doing this all over the place. I’m going to be scarred for life.”

 

Ma’s grin widens. “I’ll pay for your therapy,” she says.

 

“We’ll head home soon, Henry,” Mom says. She can’t seem to help the smile spreading across her face and, as gross as it is that he caught his moms making out in a dingy corridor next to a coffee shop bathroom, he likes how happy they make each other.

 

They’re chatting to Mary Margaret when Henry returns from the bathroom. “Come over,” Ma says. “It’ll be, like, a Boston Youth reunion.”

 

Mom nods. Her smile’s a bit forced; it always is around Mary Margaret though no one will tell him why. All Ma says is, “they have a bit of history, kid.” They get on well enough, but they tread carefully around each other and Mom makes a real effort never to be alone in a room with her.

 

Mary Margaret smiles. “We have to get Lance home,” she says. “Come over for lunch sometime soon though.”

 

“I’ll text you,” Ma says.

 

Mom huffs. “I’ll text you,” she says. “ _She’ll_ forget.” And Ma rolls her eyes so hard Henry thinks they’re going to get stuck in the back of her head.

 

The rest of the band follows them home. They bought a house two years ago, with money Mom inherited when her mother died; it’s small but there’s a big backyard and a park at the end of the street and Henry’s room has a window seat so it’s pretty much perfect even if there’s only one bathroom.

 

Henry orders pizzas online and Ma finds beer at the back of the fridge and Mom makes a salad and some non-alcoholic cocktails for her and Henry and Mulan, who doesn’t drink and will sober drive Ruby and Belle home. “I’m allergic,” she told Henry once when he asked. “My skin goes all red and blotchy.” Henry likes Mulan; she’s no nonsense and laconic (another spelling word) and once spent a whole summer teaching Henry to fence.

 

“Remember band camp?” Ruby asks. She’s sitting on the floor, leaning against Belle’s legs, beer cupped in one hand and the other hand stroking Belle’s calf.

 

Henry can’t work out whether they’re together. He’s asked Ma before and Ma just grinned. “Kid, I have no idea. They’re either married or best friends, maybe both.” Sometimes one of them has got a boyfriend or girlfriend hanging about but they never seem to last for very long.

 

“Which one?” Mom asks.

 

“You know which one,” Ruby says, grinning. “The one where you got drunk and ineptly attempted to seduce Emma.”

 

“The beginning of a beautiful relationship,” Emma says, coming back from the door with pizzas.

 

“I remember that,” Mulan says. “Gus, Rory and I were betting on how long it’d take for you two to hook up. I made twenty bucks.” Henry grabs a slice of pepperoni pizza and sits back in his armchair with a book. Mom’s making him read the classics and he’s just getting up to the good stuff in ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’.

 

“Regina was a hideous troll to Emma when they first met,” Belle says and Mom throws a balled up napkin at her.

 

“In fairness, I spent most of the time flirting with the guy I thought was her boyfriend,” Ma says, and this time it’s Henry who throws a napkin.

 

“Gross,” he says, pulling a face. Ma pokes out her tongue at him.

 

“So what is Graham up to these days?” Mulan asks.

 

“Married,” Belle says. “Living in Buffalo, I think. Somewhere in New York anyway. He’s still a police officer.”

 

After a couple of beers, Ruby starts bringing up considerably less PG stuff and Henry decides it’s time to head to his room before he is genuinely scarred for life. He reads late, listening to the murmuring voices and the occasional burst of husky laughter that he recognises as Mom’s. He’s almost asleep when Ma and Mom come upstairs. “Kid, you up?”

 

He blinks, shaking himself awake. “Yeah.” His door opens and they both come in and sit at the end of his bed.

 

“We’re very proud of you,” Mom says. She has an arm around Ma’s waist and Ma rests her head on her shoulder, blonde curls mixing with short dark hair. “You played beautifully today.”

 

“Probably time for sleep,” Ma adds and because Henry’s exhausted he doesn’t argue. She reaches out and ruffles his hair and Henry pulls her into a hug, smelling soap and cinnamon and beer. “Love you.”

 

Mom stands and kisses his forehead. “Sleep well. I love you, Henry.”

 

“Love you too,” he mumbles, and Ma rolls her eyes.

 

Ma switches his light off as they leave and he snuggles under the covers. As he drifts off, he hears Mom murmur something outside his door and Ma’s responding chuckle. Then the only sound in the house is opera, playing low.

 

He imagines Mom and Ma, Mom leaning against Ma as they lie on the couch, Ma stroking Mom’s baby bump and singing along to Rossini, mostly to piss off Mom who gets annoyed when Ma sings gibberish and pretends it’s Italian. He was a bit weirded out by the idea of having a sibling at first but now, seeing how happy they are, he thinks it’ll be good.

 

This one’ll play the clarinet. “I’m giving birth to it,” Mom had said. “I pick the instrument.”

 

And Ma had smiled and agreed. Because Henry knows Ma and Ma’ll agree to anything for the people she loves.

 

He falls asleep smiling as the music crescendos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massively gilding the proverbial lily, over-egging the pudding etc. with this chapter.
> 
> Thank you so much for the love and support this little story has received over its duration. I've really loved writing it, in no small part thanks to the awesome reviews. So, cheers.


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